Good Country People
by silver ruffian
Summary: Dean Winchester has been missing for four years. He's been a guest at Sweetbriar State Hospital for six months and now his past and present loved ones are coming for him. Gabriel Bender 'verse, dark AU, extreme Dean whump, Sam angst, hurt/comfort in later chapters.
1. green eyed boy in paradise

_**A/N:**_ In this AU,_ Skin_ never happened, so Dean was never wanted by the cops in St. Louis. After the hell I'm going to put him through, it's the least I can do for him. Story title taken from Flannery O'Connor's story of the same name. 31 Chapters completed; will be posted every Monday and Friday, around noon.

_**Pairing this chapter:**_ Dean/Nathan Beck (implied)

_**Warning:**_ This story contains rough language, torture, violence, dub non con. I don't go into graphic detail, but there's enough to let you know what's going on.

_**Summary:**_ Dean Winchester has been missing for four years. He's been a guest at Sweetbriar State Hospital for six months and now his past and present loved ones are coming for him. Dark AU, extreme Dean whump, Sam angst, hurt/comfort in later chapters.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 1 – green eyed boy in paradise**_

_1911Exorcizamus 666 te, omnis 1967 immundus spiritus_

The light inside the cell was dim, but he could still see. Any moment now the eyes in the walls would look inside. They'd see what he was doing, and then he'd be in trouble.

_omnis 124satanica1979 potestas, omnis 0502 incursio1983_

His hand shook and the black magic marker stuttered a little. His knees hurt. Even with the padding the floor was still rock hard, and he'd been down there for so long.

_et omnis 666legio diabolica adjuramus1967 te_

They called him John in this place. Sometimes it was "Hey, you" or more often, "Here, freak."

_Ergo 124draco maledicte 1979_

The words rattled around inside his head, loose, dried peas inside an empty glass jar; they came down his arm into his right hand down the marker, onto the floor, up the walls, big, bold, black letters.

_infernalis 1911adversarii_

All he had was just the words and the numbers, and it was hard to remember exactly how they were supposed to go, but he tried, he did his best. The inside of his head was all fuzzy and mushy and the bottom of his mouth tasted dry and metallic and nasty, like he'd been sucking on a handful of dirty nickels or something.

First time…

_omnis 0502legio1983_

…first time Dad sat me down and taught me this…

The memory actually made him smile as he knelt there. He ignored the way his fingers cramped up, ignored the sharp biting pain in both knees. What he really wanted was just out of reach. The words meant something. They reminded him. His eyes widened as it came to him, bursting apart behind his wide green eyes like a flower blossoming.

Dean.

_1967congregatio et secta1911 diabolica_

My name is Dean.

That made him grin, bright and fierce. He'd grinned like that one day at the real people, and they hadn't liked it. Not one bit. His left cheekbone ached with the memory of that wooden club they'd hit him with.

_Dean, you sonsofbitches! My name is Dean ---_

Despite the blood and the pain, he hadn't stopped grinning. Or yelling. He got it. He did. They were real. He wasn't. Hadn't felt real in a long long time.

It was Tuesday…no…no…Thursday…Thursday. Red day. Bad day. Half the time he couldn't tell if he was asleep or awake.

The whispering inside his head rose up, sharp and irritable, and that wasn't what he wanted. He hunched his shoulders against the noise and wrote even faster. Made the letters even bigger.

When his right hand cramped up so bad that his fingers hooked clawlike and useless Dean switched to his left.

His hair was way longer than he was used to; he couldn't remember the last time it had ever reached his shoulders. He had bangs now, but he didn't even bother to push them out of the way. He could still see. He didn't want to be distracted.

Didn't want to look up.

_Need a haircut,_ Dean thought to himself. He chuckled to himself. The lines in his face relaxed, made him look younger. The muscles of his face felt numb, like he hadn't used them in a long time.

_Gettin' about as shaggy as Sammy_.

_Sam. Oh God…_Dean blinked at the sudden wetness around his eyes. A single tear hit the floor, smearing the top part of the letter A.

Didn't matter. He ran over the A several times with the marker, made it heavier, blacker. It was enough. It would have to be.

The corners of Dean's mouth trembled slightly, downwards, then up as his lips firmed up into a hard straight line. His gaze went hard and flat, and he inhaled, deeply, sharply. His left hand moved.

_Ergo draco 1911maledicte 666 et omnis_

Maybe if he wrote enough…maybe maybe maybe…

_legio124diabolica1979 adjuramus1967 te_

Maybe it would stop. Maybe it would all stop.

Thinking made his head hurt even more, so Dean lost himself in the motion of his left hand

_cessa 0502decipere1983 humanas 1911creaturas_

and he kept his head down even as part of the wall opened up and the eyes stared right at him and he knew he was screwed.

* * *

Calvin Grissom considered himself to be a practical man. He wasn't given to flights of fancy, but he knew trouble when he saw it.

This kid was _trouble_.

They'd brought him in from County one day, six months ago, and Grissom had to admit this one was a beauty. With his dark blond hair and wide green eyes he was easily the best looking human that had ever walked the grounds, patient or staff, male or female. He wasn't like the others, all blank eyed and slack jawed, or even wild-eyed and raving. There was a watchful, feral quality to this one that Grissom definitely didn't like. Patients like this pretty boy usually meant trouble. They were the sneaky ones, the ones who did everything they could not to take their meds. They usually needed to learn their place, needed to have it beaten into them, along with the drugs and whatever other 'treatment' was prescribed for them.

Ordinarily, Grissom enjoyed a challenge, but the kid, well, he was off limits. Had been from the moment Nathan Beck laid eyes on him.

Beck was the boss, the head orderly, and Grissom was very mindful of the fact that Beck could screw with him big time, as far as present and future employment went, make his time at Sweetbriar State Hospital a living hell on top of it.

Besides, Grissom liked his job. In particular, he liked the perks.

He leaned forward with the cell at his ear as he looked through the peephole again. John Doe 317 hunched his shoulders tightly and kept writing on the floor, furiously, his eyes gone to slits. There were gaps in the curtain of longish dark blond hair that hung around the kid's face. Grissom could tell by the tight line of that full, pretty mouth that the freak knew he was in deep shit. _Good._

"Hey, Beck?" Grissom couldn't keep the grin out of his voice.

"Grissom," Beck huffed. Grissom could feel the man's irritation, heavy and blunt, through the phone lines. "You better have a damn good reason for calling me this late at night."

"Your pet boy's gone loco. That a good enough reason for you?"

"What?"

"He's writing stuff all over the walls and the floor." Grissom bent his knees slightly, peered upwards through the peephole. Damn. The writing went halfway up the walls, words and numbers and symbols that only a crazy person would know. "Probably lifted a marker or something from that dumbass social worker."

"Shit," Beck huffed. "Anybody go in yet?"

"Naw. Thought we'd call you first."

"Nobody makes a move on him until I get there. Son of a bitch…"

Grissom smirked. "Yeah, boss."

* * *

Beck strolled in thirty five minutes later. It always amazed Grissom how calm and unruffled he always looked, no matter what was going on. He wore jeans, an olive green t shirt, work boots, and that battered brown leather jacket of his.

He took a small glass bottle and a capped syringe out of his jacket pocket. Grissom and the six other orderlies waited as Beck uncapped the syringe, plunged the needle into the seal of the bottle and filled it up with amber liquid.

Beck pulled the syringe out, slipped the bottle back into his jacket pocket and capped the syringe again. "Okay. Let's go."

* * *

The lock clicked.

_Regna1967 terrae, cantate124 Deo,  
caeli 1979ad Orientem_

Dean wrote even faster.

_Psallite666 Domino  
qui fertis1911 super caelum_

He didn't have iron.

_…eyes in the walls…_

Didn't have salt.

_Ecce dabit0502voci1983_

They were going to come in. Any moment now…

_Suae vocem1967 virtutis_

They were coming in…

_tribuite124 virtutem Deo1979._

They were _in_.

Dean dropped the marker on the floor. Both knees cracked as he stood up and staggered back against the wall. His left hip hurt, a bright flare of pain that made him stagger as his back thudded against the padding. His hip hurt all the time now, and he could barely remember a time when he could run and move without effort.

The real people were all around him now, eyes bright with excitement. They bared their teeth at him like hound dogs scenting a rabbit. He knew the rules. He was supposed to lie down on the floor. Lie down on the floor like a good little boy.

_Fuck that._ Dean grinned, wild and cheerful, as he lashed out with his right and tagged the one nearest him hard enough to make him stumble back.

"Christo." Something was supposed to happen when he said the word, but it didn't work. His head rocked back as he was struck in the face, and they closed in on him then.

"Son of a bitch, get off me, get the fuck off me --"

_They_ could touch _him_, _not_ the other way around. Those were the rules.

Dean kicked out, caught one of them in the shins hard enough to bring the man to his knees.

He was going to pay for this. Rabbits always did.

His left hip bitched a fit about the kick. He went off balance as an arm, thick and muscular, slid around his neck and pulled his head back. His knees buckled as he was hit in the back, right above his kidneys. He couldn't breathe as he was slammed face first into the floor. They piled on top of him and all he could do was snarl and spit like some cornered alley cat Animal Control had pinned to the ground and was about to haul away.

Someone's knee jammed into the side of his head, hard against his ear, pressed the side of his face down into the padding so hard Dean's jaws ached and it felt like his damn neck was gonna crack.

Dean caught a glimpse of battered brown leather out of the corner of his eye, and the man wearing the jacket was tall, dark and imposing, older, but not by much, with light stubble and piercing eyes. The dude winked at him as he uncapped the syringe in his hand.

Dean blinked. _Dad? Please, no ---_

A sharp needle prick in the side of his neck nearly took his breath away. Dean gulped in air, forced it down past the pain. He growled out loud, angrily, because he knew what that meant, knew it was over.

The drug spread through him like an oil slick on water, a wave of heavy warmth, thick and fast-moving, that flooded his muscles, loosened them up to the point where he couldn't move anymore. All Dean could do was breathe, as everything turned dark around him, his arms and legs limp and useless at his sides as they pulled the straightjacket around him, buckled him in nice and snug and tight.

He was in the dream again, and it was always the same: fast flashes of color (_bright blue and neon yellow_) smells (_beer, cigarette smoke, cooked_ _food_), and sounds (_Motel's down the road, 'm tired, Dean_) then the air got cooler, darker, and at the end there was always a huge blinding flash of light that growled.

_Sammy_ was always the last thing Dean thought of as he turned towards the glare, and then the light came crashing down on him just like it always did and broke him into little pieces.

* * *

"John?"

_Go away._

It was peaceful, bobbing just underneath the surface of all that dark water.

Something hard slammed into the side of his bare foot. It didn't hurt; he was too numb for that, but it jolted him. He grunted, blinking, as he came awake.

"Better answer me when I'm talking to you, boy. John?"

One name was as good as another.

The ache in his head was low and heavy, a dull throb right behind his eyes that flared a little every time he took a breath. Couldn't move his arms and he didn't even have to see to know things had gotten worse; he could recognize the feel of a straightjacket with his eyes closed.

That was bad enough, but it was the tone of Beck's voice that really bothered John. Beck had the uncanny ability to sound perfectly calm, even though he was totally pissed off.

Like now.

John opened his eyes. Slowly. He glanced up at Beck's face, then, just as quickly, dropped his gaze and stared at his toes. It was the safest place to look. He was on the floor now, sitting with his back against a wall. Judging from that now familiar ache in his neck and the weakness in his muscles he knew he'd been dosed.

One look around and John knew he was fucked.

Black writing all over the floors and the walls. Big block letters, and numbers.

_Dean,_ John thought. _Damn you..._

Beck crossed his arms in front of him as he leaned against the padded wall. "You mind telling me why you marked up my walls, John?"

"It wasn't me." John shook his head in quick, spastic jerks. "No…no…no…it wasn't me."

Beck knelt beside him, clasped his hands in front of him. "If I wasn't you, then who was it, huh? Was it Dean?"

John stared at the floor.

He startled as Beck thumped him hard on the forehead. "You think I don't know what's going on inside that fucked up head of yours? Think I don't know who else is in there? I know who Dean is. He came out and talked to us one time after we gave you the needle. Kid's got a damn smart mouth."

Beck reached out, cupped John's chin with his hand, lifted the boy's head up so that they looked at each other, eye to eye. John blinked rapidly. It was uncomfortable for him; patients almost never looked staff in the eyes, and Beck knew it.

But the kid knew better than to jerk his head away.

Beck slid his hand inside his shirt pocket. He pulled out a brown plastic medicine bottle filled with red pills, raised it up so John could see it. Beck rattled the bottle from side to side.

"Please," John whispered roughly. "I need my pills."

"They make you feel good, don't they?" Beck cocked his head to one side. He slipped the bottle back into his pocket, nodded with satisfaction as John's shoulders sagged.

"Please," John breathed.

"Let me see if I'm understanding this," Beck sighed heavily. "You marked up my walls and my floor, dragged me away from home in the middle of the night, caused all this trouble, and now you think things are gonna go on like before?" Beck shook his head. "These walls belong to me. Just like you do. You've been a good boy so far. I just think you need a reminder. We're gonna get back to basics for the next few days."

Beck shrugged as he pulled his hand away. "Give you a fresh start, a second chance. You remember the white bees, John? Remember how they got inside your head, under your skin? Remember how they made you feel?"

"No…please…no," John slurred. "…s-sorry, 'm sorry…"

"I know you are, baby." Beck leaned in, brushed his lips against that full, bruised mouth. "But I still have to teach you a lesson."

"…no, please…" He kept saying it, even though he knew nothing he could say was going to stop this. "Dean screwed everything up, no, it wasn't me, it wasn't my fault, no, please…"

Beck stepped back as Grissom and three others moved in and dragged John to his feet.

"No, it wasn't me…"

He was dragged down the hallway and thrown onto the gurney before he even realized it, shaking, scared and pleading as they stripped the straightjacket off him and strapped him down. All he could move was his mouth. All he could say was useless words, over and over again.

"…it was Dean, it wasn't me…"

"John, it's okay. It's gonna be all right." Doctor Barnes was there. Glare from the overhead lights glinted off those round glasses of his as he leaned over John and made soothing noises that they both knew were lies.

Barnes pulled down the waistband of John's light blue scrub pants. The air in the room was cool against his bare skin. John's nostrils flared as he caught the scent of alcohol, felt moist cotton pressed against his hip.

"No. No! It wasn't…I _didn't_…"

"Ssssh, John." Dr. Barnes pressed his hand flat against John's forehead. "Everything's fine."

Lying bastard. It wasn't fine, not fucking now it wasn't, and the pain of the needle prick was lost in the numbness that spread through his body.

"…no…noooo…"

"It's okay, John. It's all right…"

The taste of the rubber mouthpiece was slick and bitter, like he was tasting everyone who'd ever worn the damn thing before him. John gagged as his tongue was pushed down hard against the bottom of his mouth. He flinched at the surprisingly gentle touch of the electrodes at both his temples.

"Calm down. John. Can you do that for me? Calm down…"

Then the switch banged open, loud and hollow.

The white bees swarmed into him, burrowed underneath his freckled skin. They filled his head up, made his back arch, as his heels drummed madly against the table, and he couldn't even scream.

* * *

John came out of the white slowly, one breath at a time. His jaws ached. His head hurt. He lay on his back on the floor, in another cell, and this one was lit by a bright white light set in a metal cage up in the ceiling.

_The better to see you with, my dear._

He needed his pills. Just one. That was all. A red one, or maybe even a blue one. Something to tide him over for the next eight hours. Something to stop that awful shaking at his core. His feet were ice cold. Freezing. At least his hands were warm inside the straightjacket. He laid there, felt his muscles shiver and tremble. The light made his head ache even more, so he closed his eyes, kept them squeezed shut. He couldn't even stretch his legs out. He was hobbled.

Maybe he didn't remember exactly how he got here, but he remembered what came before. It was like he was watching it all happen to someone else.

Family. He had a family out there, somewhere. But if they really loved him, they would have come for him, wouldn't they? They wouldn't have left him here for so long. Maybe he could have gotten out if he wanted to, could have started talking months ago, but that wouldn't have been right. Talking meant questions would be asked, and he'd have to answer those questions. You don't call attention to family. You never do that.

We do what we do, and we shut the hell up about it.

He'd thought about leaving on his own at first. Thought about playing the game, playing along. That was the plan at first. Beck would have let him off the leash a little bit more. He could have started nosing around the place. Poked at the weak spots. Found a way to the outside.

But then they started giving him the reds, and suddenly none of that outside stuff seemed to matter anymore. He needed those pills. He wanted them. They made Dean shut the hell up, and John got what he wanted, so long as he was Beck's good little pet. Living here wasn't so bad until…until…

Dean fucked everything up. _Stupid bastard._

John tried to roll over on his side, and it took several tries before he found himself on his back. His muscles were blown; they tingled with the memory of the shock. His nerve endings stuttered and jerked. He laid there for a moment, and he kept his eyes closed.

Again. He lifted his right shoulder off the floor.

He moved slowly. Coordination and reflexes were all screwed up. His leg muscles trembled and quivered uncontrollably, but he got there, right where he wanted to be, on his side now, with his back to the light, and even with his feet so freezing cold he could barely feel his toes, this wasn't so bad.

John blew out a breath and relaxed.

Names didn't matter. He knew who he really was, what name really mattered.

_Gabriel_, he thought to himself as he curled up as much as he could and squeezed his eyes shut even tighter._ 'm name's Gabriel Bender._

* * *

_**A/N:**_ The first exorcism is the Rituale Romanum. The second one is the exorcism Dean used in "Crossroads Blues."

These are the numbers from Dean's fractured mind:

666 – Satan

1911 – Colt 1911

1967 – the Impala

1241979 – Dean's birthdate

05021983 – Sam's birthdate

Next chapter to be posted on Friday.


	2. mysterious ways

_**A/N: **_This is an extremely twisted version of the _John Doe 317_ drabble fic and the _no halo and one wing in the fire_ (Gabriel Bender) fic that I wrote in 2007. Bobby Singer, The Winchesters (Sam, Dean and John), and The Benders (Pa, Missy, Lee and Jerry) belong to Eric Kripke. I created everyone else. Missy is 16 when this starts out; she's 20 four years later. I also created a backstory for Pa Bender and his brothers. Much thanks to WaterNymph1970 for her support and advice.

_**What's in this chapter?**_ Sam without Dean; Dean's whereabouts for the past four years.

_**Warning:**_ This chapter contains descriptions of incest, cannibalism and violence. I don't go into overly graphic detail but trust me, you'll get the idea.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 2 - mysterious ways**_

"Sammy Sammy Sammy," the demon inside Edith Craine rolled its black eyes, made a clicking noise with its stolen tongue. "You Winchesters are so damn predictable, you know that?" She tapped her fingernails against the arm of the wooden chair she was chained to. "Bored now."

Sam Winchester didn't say a word. He upended the bucket of holy water over her head and body and stepped back as sulfur smell and steam rolled off her in waves.

The demon screamed laughter. She rocked back and forth, twisted her wrists and ankles against the chains so hard that her left arm fractured. White jagged bone pierced her skin. Before Dean disappeared Sam would have been horrified by the sight of that. Now? It was something that wouldn't raise a pimple on Sam's ass, as Dean would have said.

"Is that all you _got_?" Edith snarled at last. She shook her grey head from side to side like a wet dog.

"You're gonna tell me where Dean is," Sam said quietly. "Or --- "

"Or what? You're gonna kill me and Granny here?" The thing rolled its eyes. "You talk a good game, but everyone knows you don't have the sack for this. Now if Big John was here, I'd be worried. You?" It sneered. "Please."

The demon looked up at the devil's trap on the ceiling directly overhead and yawned, her mouth stretching impossibly wide. The smell of sulfur got even stronger. Sam breathed through his mouth for a moment or so.

"If we had Deano, we'd let you know, Sammy boy. We'd torment you with him. He's been gone for four years. Four long years," the demon sang in a singsong voice, "and you've been alone all this time." She smiled a little as Sam's shoulders sagged slightly.

"See," she leaned forward, smiling. "I get it. I do. You're the civilized one, the emo one. Dean's the muscle. And he's not here now, is he? Tell you what, you break this trap of yours, unchain me, and I'll forget the whole thing. Leave me your cell phone number and if I find out anything about Dean, well, I'll give you a call. We can work something out. Otherwise," it cocked the woman's head to one side, "if you don't turn me loose I'll give Grandma here a massive heart attack. She's an innocent, Sam, same as you are. I can hear her screaming. You seem like such a nice young man. Please save her. She wants you to save her, Sam."

Sam reached for his back waistband. He pulled Dean's Colt 1911 in one smooth motion, with a two handed grip, and shot Granny right in the forehead.

"You stupid bastard!" the demon snarled. Blood and brains dripped down between its eyes. "Gonna have to find another meatsuit now…"

"No. You don't." Pitch black eyes widened as Sam slipped the gun back into his waistband. He pulled the journal out of his jacket pocket.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"

Sam read the words aloud, and the demon screamed.

* * *

_The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away_, Ma used to say.

Well, Missy wasn't too thrilled with _that_ notion nowadays. Damn Indian giver.

Before her life fell apart there were three things in life that Missy Bender was absolutely sure of.

First, she knew her Pa loved her. Pa never took back anything he ever gave her. He doted on her, worshipped the ground she walked on. He gave her any and everything she ever wanted, no matter what.

Jewelry, body parts from the people they hunted, whatever caught her fancy. She had glass jars filled with teeth and withered fingers, silver and gold rings and all sorts of necklaces, wind chimes made from human bones, pretty clothes and stuff for her hair.

Sometimes she cleaned the blood off as best she could; sometimes she didn't. She liked the way dried blood looked sometimes.

Second, she knew God loved her too, because God brought Gabriel to her four years ago.

Missy remembered Ma reading to her from the family bible when she was real little. It was nice, snuggling into Ma's side while she read about fire and brimstone.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Missy," Ma would say quietly. "You remember that now, girl." Ma was always quiet. She never raised her voice, not even when Pa hit her.

Missy liked Ma; at least, she didn't_ dislike_ her. One day when Missy was nine and Lee and Jerry were pretty much grown Ma just up and disappeared. It was the middle of winter, and Pa served up meat stew for a month.

Life went on, same as usual. Missy wasn't bothered much. She always was her Daddy's girl. She still had her brothers, Lee and Jerry, and Pa, of course.

And Gabriel too. She was just too young to realize it then.

His picture was in the family Bible, and a lock of his hair was taped to the back of the picture. His hair was sandy blond and straight, soft to the touch, and sometimes she'd sit there and close her eyes and just run her fingers through the hair over and over again. The picture was dog-eared around the edges, faded, and she used to wonder about the color of his eyes.

In the picture Gabriel sat on the front porch steps in his denim clothes and dusty work boots, and he was the most handsome man Missy had ever seen. His nose looked just like the noses she'd seen on the pretty people on television, fine and unbroken. She stared at his mouth, full and somehow delicate, turned up at the corners, slight smile, no teeth showing, and she knew that if he _did_ smile his teeth would be bright white.

Gabriel was broad-shouldered and perfect. He looked directly into the camera. He was looking at _her_. Missy knew it for a fact.

She kept the Bible in her room after Ma left. She read to herself sometimes, but she liked it better when Pa read to her. She loved to hear about Sodom and Gomorrah, and she laughed when he read the part about Lot's wife turning into salt. That was funny.

Pa got this sad look in his eyes when Missy asked him about Gabriel one day.

Missy didn't like that look.

There were three brothers way back in the beginning. Pa's Christian name was Abraham. Jedediah was the next oldest, and Gabriel was the youngest. Pa explained his ma named the baby Gabriel because he had the face of an angel, and that much was certainly true.

Missy was sixteen the night Pa and Lee and Jerry came back with the boy. They laid him down on the couch, careful, like he was some precious thing. Missy could tell his left arm and left leg was hurt, probably broken. The left side of his face was dotted with dark bruises and blood, from his temple to his chin. He had a peculiar reddish purple bruise down near the front of his shoulder, on the left.

She took one look at him and forgot how to breathe. Blood, short spiky hair, broad shoulders, freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose like spilled salt.

"Gabriel," Missy whispered softly to herself.

Those long dark eyelashes fluttered open. His eyes were_ green_. The prettiest, brightest green she'd ever seen. If they were gonna hunt him she would have asked Pa for those eyes afterwards, she would have searched for the cleanest glass jar with a lid she could find in the kitchen.

Pa reached out and took Gabriel's hand. Gabriel stared up at Pa, glassy-eyed. A dark shadow lingered over his eyes and his face, and then vanished into that freckled skin. His eye color darkened, to a slightly deeper green color.

"A-Abra-ham…" the boy breathed.

Pa froze, eyes wide in disbelief.

"…p-pleas'…dun' hurt me…any…mor'…" Gabriel's voice cracked a little, like that glass in the kitchen window over the sink, but it was still deep and smooth. _Manly_, Ma would have said.

Missy looked over at Lee. "Tough bastard," Lee whispered. "Pa hit him with the truck."

Lee and Jerry stood around, fidgeting, like they didn't quite know what to do next. Pa didn't even look around. "Go get me some sheets outta that back closet. " Lee and Jerry moved off and Pa raised his voice. He never turned away, never took his eyes off the boy. "And get me some boards from the barn. Two long ones, two short. Make 'em smooth. No splinters."

Lee and Jerry moved faster.

"Missy," Pa grunted, "get me that Bible, ya hear?"

Missy did. When she came back moments later Gabriel's eyes were closed. He was still alive and breathing, though; she could tell by the rise and fall of his chest.

"You know who this is?" Pa's voice sounded rougher than usual.

Missy nodded. She gripped the book with both hands. Hard. "Gabriel, Pa."

"That's right. We're not gonna hunt this one. He's a gift. God has forgiven me for my sins. Years ago I made a terrible mistake. I killed my own kin. He was innocent of what I accused him of." Pa's broad shoulders shook as he looked at the boy. "The Lord forgave me and sent my baby brother back to me."

Missy stood there blinking.

"Here." Pa reached out with his right hand, and Missy stuck her hand out, palm up.

Missy stared at the wide silver ring on her palm. The bracelet was bigger than her wrist. It looked like dark wire knotted up into a circle, and it wasn't all pretty and shiny like the other ones she had. The necklace had a small bronze face on the end of this long black cord; the face had horns. Missy ran her thumb against the tip of one of the horns over and over again.

She didn't know what she was feeling, and she wasn't sure she liked it. She didn't like seeing Pa this way. She had her favorite knife in the pocket of her dress and inside she felt all jumpy and jittery like water drops on a hot cast iron skillet. That made her want to cut something. _A__nything__._

Lee and Jerry came back with the sheets and the boards. Pa stood up, grabbed one of the sheets out of Jerry's hand, and started tearing it into long, wide strips. Lee and Jerry stood there for a moment, and then because it was what Pa wanted, they started ripping up the rest of the sheets too.

Missy inched closer. She could see Gabriel's left leg looked a little twisted, even just laying there on the couch.

"Lee. Jerry? Gimme a hand now," Pa rumbled. Jerry went over to the head of the couch; Pa nodded. He took Gabriel's left hand again, and those wide eyes flickered open. They were bright, grey-green this time. They nearly glowed.

"Got to set your leg, and your arm," Pa said to him, softly. Gabriel just blinked. Missy didn't move. Pa pulled out his knife and started cutting Gabriel's pants and shirts off. Gabriel closed his eyes.

Misty just stood there, staring.

Gabriel's skin was freckled, on his face, chest, and back. His left side was bruised, dark and angry, from his arm all the way down his leg. His broad shoulders tapered down to a V shape, and his waist was narrow. That pleased Missy, although she couldn't say why.

He had scars over his body, and Missy bet there was a story behind each slightly raised stripe of skin. Pa wasn't shy about cutting all the clothing off, and he didn't tell Missy to move away either, not even after he sliced that black underwear off and Gabriel's manhood was exposed.

Lee fetched one of Ma's afghans from somewhere, the big crunchy brown, blue and white one, and covered Gabe up with it after Pa finished. The color of the afghan set off the golden color in Gabriel's skin.

Missy had been out in the barn the day Pa set the broken leg on one of Ma's goats. Ma was fond of goat milk, and she was fond of that particular little critter. They had four goats, ten or so scrawny chickens, six head of sheep, and two milk cows. Missy loved the taste of chicken, and when the family started eating the _other_ meat, from the ones they hunted, Missy didn't mind _that_ either.

Gabriel groaned out loud when Pa held his arm by the elbow and pulled it straight. It was a deep, breathy sound that raised goosebumps along Missy's spine. Lee moved in with the two shorter pieces of board. Pa put them on either side of Gabe's arm, from his wrist to his elbow, and he wrapped the sheet snug around the boards and the arm.

"Got a broken collarbone too," Pa muttered, and he folded a large square of the sheet in two. The sling looked like the one he'd made for Missy when she busted her arm that time climbing in the hayloft in the barn. Gabriel breathed in and out, fast, short breaths, kind of like the way that goat had when Pa attended to it.

At the time Missy wanted to use her knife on the goat, just a little stab here and a poke there, but Ma wouldn't have liked that, so she didn't.

Jerry lifted Gabe up from behind, held him up as Pa angled his arm over his chest, and then wrapped the arm to his body with a long strip of torn sheet so he couldn't move it.

Gabriel's back arched. He hissed, but he didn't scream out.

That came later, when Pa straightened out that left leg of his, right before he put the boards on either side, wrapped the whole thing up nice and neat, and not too tight. Gabriel's back arched again, and Jerry leaned over him, pushed his large palms down on both of Gabe's shoulders to hold him still.

Missy stared at Gabriel, watched the way the cords of his throat stretched long and tight. His eyes blinked open, filled with shifting shadows.

Pa gripped Gabe's hand. "Stay with me, y'hear? Stay with me now." Gabriel's eyes rolled up white. Those long dark eyelashes fluttered shut.

Lee wandered back with the happy box. It was a large tin box that Ma had used to keep spices in. Didn't look like much. It was pretty beat up, with faded out pictures of some castle in a forest somewhere on all four sides. Missy couldn't remember where Ma got it from. The box was special now because of what was inside.

Pa opened the tin, took out the first brown plastic bottle. He squinted at the label. "Vi-co-din," Pa said carefully. " 's for pain. Missy, go get me a glass of water now."

Grayson's Pharmacy, Hibbing, Minnesota. The pharmacist and the cashier cooperated during the robbery, but hell, Lee and Pa killed them anyway. The cops arrested some drifters for the murders a week later. Pa didn't mind that one bit. Let the law think whatever they damn well wanted to. He always said it was a shame that medicines and such cost so damn much. Man had to do what ever he could to care for his family.

Missy went into the kitchen and found the cleanest glass she could, filled it up nearly all the way.

Pa shook one pill out on his palm. Lee helped Gabriel sit up. His eyes blinked open, glazed over with pain.

"Come on now, Gabe," Pa said. "You got to take this."

Gabriel stared at him blankly. Pa pushed the pill between those full lips, then tilted the glass against his mouth. Gabriel sipped at the water until finally his head nodded back as his eyes shuttered closed again.

Pa pulled the glass away. Lee lowered Gabe gently back down on the couch.

"You go on now," Pa muttered sadly to Missy. "We got to make him comfortable."

Back in her room Missy sat on her bed and looked at herself in this big purple plastic compact she kept on her nightstand. Missy hadn't liked the girl who owned it. It was fun watching her run through the woods screaming and yelling the night she died. Missy enjoyed the hell out of_ that_ part.

The mirror was cracked on an angle, all the way across, but Missy could still see herself just fine.

She didn't like what she saw.

Her brown, shoulder length hair was tangled and dirty. Those yellow barrettes were something that a kid would wear. Missy dug around in her things, and she pulled out that tortoiseshell comb and brush. Ma used to brush her hair with it. It was one of the things she kept that Ma actually touched.

Missy pulled her hair up and back around her face.

Huh. She looked more grown up that way. She bared her teeth at the mirror. They were yellow. Crusty looking. Needed fixing. Needed work.

Gabriel was all shiny and pretty, and Missy wanted to look just as shiny and pretty for him.

_He was hers._ She was sure of it. Missy wanted Gabriel, God wanted her to have Gabriel. She wanted to get to know him, in a biblical way, of course. She was feeling something down in her woman parts, as Ma called them. She'd felt this way before, but never quite like _this._

About a year ago she started letting Jerry touch her down there. It was all right, some days she needed the feel of a body rubbing up against her, and Jerry was more than happy to oblige her. They wandered off together nearly every day, the further away from the house and Pa, the better. Jerry grunted and groaned when he pushed into her, and sometimes she had to keep a straight face and not laugh. He sounded like a hog snuffling around after slop at feeding time. He bit her when he kissed her, and it hurt like hell sometimes.

Missy always kept her eyes closed until he was done.

Most days she was with Jerry in the morning, and Lee in the afternoon. Whenever she let Lee kiss her his mouth tasted like corn whiskey, chewing tobacco and dirt. He always came quick, quicker than Jerry ever did. Lee didn't make much noise. He didn't talk to her, tell her she was pretty. Well, neither did Jerry.

Missy guessed maybe they thought they didn't have to because she was their sister. Lee's fingers roamed all over and inside her body as though he was in a hurry, like he was hungry for her but he had to hurry up 'cause he had other things to do.

She didn't have anything else to compare it to, but Missy was pretty damn sure that was _not_ how it was supposed to be. Gabriel's mouth would be soft and smooth, taste like bright, sweet sunshine. Her skin would sing underneath his fingertips, and her toes would curl right up. She knew that as sure as she knew her own name.

The third thing that Missy knew for certain? God wanted her to have Gabriel.

There was a reason she kept the bible. There was a reason she'd kept the picture all these years. God loved her, just like Pa did, and Pa wouldn't mind. Giving her Gabriel was a way of keeping it all in the family, and it was proof of God's love for her.

Later on Missy crept up to the doorway of Pa's bedroom. Gabriel was in Pa's bed, sleeping, pale and still. His left arm and leg was out, the rest of him was mostly covered by that thick heavy green and yellow quilt Ma made one winter. Missy stood there for a moment, stared at the way the part of his bare chest that wasn't covered moved up and down as he breathed in and out. She wiggled her fingers as she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest; she wanted to feel the muscles underneath his skin. They'd be hard and tight. Missy was certain of it.

Pa sat by the bed and Jerry and Lee hovered near the door. They still looked like they thought hunting Gabriel would still be a good idea, but they weren't about to lay a hand on him. Not now.

"Pa?" Missy felt shy all of a sudden. "Could I get some stuff from town tomorrow?"

Pa frowned. "Like what stuff?"

"Ummm, a toothbrush…" Missy scuffed the toe of her right boot hard against the hard wood floor. "Toothpaste. And some of that sweet smelling soap. Girl stuff."

"Toothpaste," Lee snickered. Jerry laughed. They always were damned fools.

Pa frowned, but he got what she was saying soon enough. He smiled a little, looked from Missy to Gabriel, and nodded.

She kept the little horned face necklace and the silver ring. The ring was too big for her finger, but it was his and she didn't want to lose it, so she strung it on the cord with the necklace and wore it that way.

She tossed the bracelet. It wasn't shiny enough.

"Damn," Jerry said slowly the next day. "You cleaned up real good." He looked startled when he saw Missy hours later. She'd taken a bath, washed her hair, then actually combed it. She put on the cleanest dress she could find.

Pa smiled. He seemed young again, and Missy really liked seeing that.

* * *

That was the start of her life with Gabriel. He was hers, but he didn't know it at first. Pa let her sit with him. She read to Gabriel out of the bible, even when he was sleeping. Missy could see a flicker of something dark in those wide green eyes of his when he was awake.

She liked that.

She fed him breakfast, lunch and dinner. He liked the thick meaty stew that Pa served up after the hunts. He took his pain pills until he didn't need them anymore. He didn't care much for salt in his food.

Missy never knew why.

Gabe had nightmares sometimes. More in the beginning, before he got better and could finally move around on his own two feet. He'd curl up in a ball on his side, hug his knees and shake and shiver. He stared at her all wide-eyed, talked to himself, muttered words like "Sam" and "Dad." His eyes were brighter, lighter then.

Missy didn't know who this Sam or Dad were, but if they were the ones who hurt Gabriel, then she'd have something to say to them about that if she ever met them face to face. That was bound to be interesting, because she usually let her knives do the talking for her. Missy still looked younger than her age, and most folks really didn't pay much attention to her because of that, until it was too late.

She helped Gabriel walk around the house, and then the yard when he felt better. She loved how solid he felt when he leaned against her.

They both had Pa's blessing. Missy wasn't exactly sure that Gabriel understood what that meant, until the night he scooped her up into his arms and took her into his room in the back. His mouth _was_ smooth and soft, and she couldn't get enough of it. The feel of his tongue on her bare skin made her shiver all over. He whispered to her, told her all the things he was going to do to her with his hands, his dick, and his mouth.

He told her she was beautiful. He actually took his time. Missy felt like he was standing on tiptoe on the knife edge of the world, and when Gabriel rocked into her, all slow and deep, she closed her eyes, held him tight and gratefully let go.

When she came Missy dug her fingernails into Gabriel's strong, bare back. She bared her teeth and thrashed underneath him. It hurt and it felt so damn good at the same time.

When they were in bed together she always spent hours exploring Gabriel's body. She asked him about the scars, but he never could remember what happened. She whispered in his ear that she wanted to hurt the ones who hurt him, and Gabriel always smiled when he heard that. He didn't say much, but she listened when he did. That voice of his sent chills down her spine.

He seemed amused when he saw that necklace and ring she wore around her neck. Missy wore it all the time; she never took it off.

"Here. You want this back?" she asked him one time.

Gabriel just smiled and shook his head no.

Later on, when Gabriel could walk without help, they hunted people in the woods, same as always. Gabriel turned out to be damned good at it. Pa and Gabriel were relentless, silent as death. They'd look at each other and roll their eyes when Lee and Jerry started whooping and hollering.

_Dumbasses._

Usually Gabe moved like a cat, quick and smooth. He had his bad days too. Missy could always tell. He was angry and confused then, and his left hip ached. His eyes were still green, but they were lighter, brighter in color, and he didn't seem to know his own name. Missy didn't know why, but she was afraid that he would try to leave her then.

When Gabriel's eyes darkened slightly, Misty learned to relax. It was safe. _They _were safe.

The bad days never lasted long.

* * *

Missy always suspected that something was wrong inside her. Lee and Jerry never used protection, and really, she just figured that she was lucky. She knew enough, knew as much as she and Gabriel fucked every day she should have a baby in there by now. She never said anything to him, but after a while Gabriel seemed to sense something was wrong.

One night she got really sad about it. She laid her head on his shoulder as they sat in bed. He put one arm around her waist, rubbed her back with his other hand, in small circles.

"If you want a baby, I'll go get you one," he whispered, smooth and deep.

She slowly ran her hand over his bare shoulder and arm, and the feel of his freckled skin laid tight and smooth over solid muscle made her shudder. God, he felt _good_.

Now that she thought about it, it was stupid to feel that way. There were plenty of babies out there. It was just a matter of picking out the right one someday. It would be like a shopping trip, better than growing one inside her. If God didn't want her to have one of her own, then there was a reason for that. It was for the best.

And besides, right now Missy didn't want to share Gabriel. Not yet, anyway. She nodded and sniffed nosily. "Maybe later."

Gabriel nodded, and held her even closer to him.

She never wondered where he'd come from, who his family was. That didn't matter. People came, and people went all the time. The only thing that did matter was he was hers, and if his own family couldn't hold onto him, well, to hell with them, too.

Missy never let Lee and Jerry touch her again after Pa gave Gabriel to her. They both tried to fuck her out in the barn the day after she and Gabriel first made love. Jerry slapped Missy's knife out of her hand as he grabbed her. He was bigger, and when she bit him on the arm as he held her down he just laughed.

Lee ran his hands down Missy's breasts and stomach. "This is ours, bitch," he snarled at her. "You were ours way before that fucking pretty boy showed up."

Gabriel walked up behind them just as Lee undid his belt and unzipped his pants.

It was Missy's turn to laugh at how scared Jerry looked.

Later on, when it was time for everyone to sit down and eat supper, Pa noticed that Jerry's nose and mouth was swollen. He had two black eyes, and he couldn't move his right arm.

Lee didn't eat that night. He said he had a toothache, but both his eyes were black and blue and damn near swollen shut. He looked pretty busted up too. He could barely move his arms when he did his chores the next morning. They both limped for days, and Lee always walked with a limp after that.

Pa didn't say anything. Neither did Missy or Gabriel.

* * *

They had four years together. Four good years. Then came the night that Lee and Jerry came back without Gabriel. Lee was shot in the arm, and Jerry was hit in the right leg. The person they tried to pull into the truck had a gun and started shooting. Jerry killed him with that hatchet he always carried with him, but more people were coming out of Kugel's Keg, and it was time to go.

Lee and Jerry didn't know if Gabriel had been hit. Didn't know where he was.

They drove off. They left him.

Missy cried and screamed and slashed at them with her knife. Pa just stood there, shoulders slumped. He looked old all of a sudden.

Later on that same night, Missy lay in bed with her tears drying on her face. She felt bad inside, but somehow she knew that Gabriel wasn't dead.

_She knew._ Besides, God wouldn't be that cruel to her.

She skimmed her fingers across the dark brown leather cover of her bible, and hugged it to her chest. The leather felt worn, old, like she did now.

Missy still believed, though. She believed with all her heart that God would make this tribulation up to her. Gabriel would find his way back to her, and when he did, she was going to kill all the bastards who kept him away from her in the first place.

* * *

Next post Monday. We're back to the mental institution. Buckle up, and be sure to take your meds.


	3. long time gone

_**A/N:**_ _janissa11_ was kind enough to allow me to use a detail which appeared in her story, _Knock On The Sky_: Dean carries around with him a paperback book, _Mythology_, by Edith Hamilton. The lyrics to the song Gabriel/Dean sings is from _Welcome Home (Sanitarium),_ by Metallica (1986). Chapter title taken from _Long Time Gone_ by the Dixie Chicks.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 3 – Long Time Gone**_

He was cold. His chest hurt.

Gabriel looked up at Abraham, watched as Abe took the two spent shells out of his shotgun and put two more in. Gabe couldn't feel his legs, couldn't feel the ground he was lying on any more. Big brother looked mad, and Gabriel didn't know why.

The words came out of his mouth in a rough, hoarse whisper: "A-bra-ham…p-pleas'…dun't hurt me… any…mor'…"

"Shut the hell up, you lyin' bastard..." Abraham pointed the shotgun at Gabriel's face. Gabriel stared into the blackness of both barrels and the world disappeared in a blinding white flash.

Gabriel blinked.

"John? Welcome back." A heavyset black man sat across from him. Behind a desk. He wore a dark grey suit.

Gabriel stared at him. For a moment he was completely blank, then he was able to put a name with the face.

Weddington. Dr. Ephraim Weddington.

Gabriel looked down at himself, and he sighed when he saw the straightjacket and the chair restraints.

Weddington looked friendly and concerned, but Gabriel wasn't fooled. The reflection off the glass in the pictures on the walls hurt his eyes. Gabriel slumped forward, against the straps. His feet were cold; he could barely feel the hardwood floor underneath his toes. He clenched his jaws tightly against that nasty dust-dry taste in his mouth. The shaking had already begun. It stuttered up to the surface to loosen whatever weak grip on reality he had left. He raised his heels off the floor, watched his knees jitter, slowly at first.

…_need…want my pills… _

He was still getting meds every day, but they weren't the ones he really _wanted_; they were the ones everyone thought he _needed_. He took the round purple pills, the little white pills, and the yellow ones. He even took the pink triangles that made him sick and cramped his stomach up so bad he laid in the corner of his cell for hours. It was either take them willingly or get stuck with the needle, and sometimes even when he took his meds with no problem he got stuck anyway.

"Can you tell me where you went just now, John? Who's Abraham?"

Damn. He said it out loud.

Gabriel's face went blank. "I dunno."

He glanced up and then looked away quickly. Dr. Ephraim Weddington was one of the sneaky ones. At least with Beck everything was clear and out in the open: _Let me touch you, John. Don't hide from me, John. Good boy. _

Gabriel wanted to be a good boy again. Red pills everyday, his own special blend that made him feel so damn good, Beck's mouth all soft and nipping, his hands rough against his skin. Rec room privileges, being able to feed himself, instead of being fed. He'd had it all, and that damn Dean had to go and ruin it.

And now Weddington wanted to help him feel all better about it.

He looked kind enough, with those mild brown eyes, but he was real and Gabriel wasn't. People like Weddington weren't to be trusted. The real ones did whatever they wanted to the shadow people, especially in this place.

_I used to be real. Used to hunt bastards like you,_ Gabriel thought to himself as he stared at the man. _We'd give you a weapon and a head start, and I could hunt your sorry ass down in the pitch dark. _

Bad thoughts, every last one of them. Gabe's shoulders shook, and he hunched over even more, as far as the straps would allow.

"I – I wanna g-go h-home," Gabriel stammered. It sounded like something maybe Weddington wanted to hear.

"Well, okay. We can help you with that." Dr. Weddington's voice was warm, even friendly. Gabe knew the tone. In another life he'd used it often enough, to lure in folks for the hunt.

_Sure, I can give you a ride home. My car's right outside. _

He did it for family. It was _all_ for family. The problem with family was, sometimes they leave.

Or he got left.

_"Leave the sumbitch, Jerry! I'm telling you, we gotta go!"_

Gabriel jerked upright in the chair. That was from that other life he had, the one before this. Maybe he should get mad about that, but he was kind of hazy on the details.

"All you have to do is tell us where your family is. You can do that, can't you. John?"

Gabriel looked away, towards the bookcase by the door. If he stared at the books hard enough he could almost feel the leather underneath his fingertips. There were books at home. They were old and dusty, though, and they weren't as nice. The nicest one was the book Missy used to read to him while he was sick.

"Welcome to where time stands still, no one leaves and no one will…" he sang softly, in a low, clear voice.

Weddington stopped and leaned forward.

"Moon is full, never seems to change, just labeled mentally deranged…" The words seemed to fade away as quickly as they'd come out. Gabriel stared down at his lap.

Weddington smiled, just a little. "You like music, John?"

Gabriel blinked. "No."

"How's Dean today, John? Can I talk to him?"

"No."

"You can't leave unless you get better. You can't get better until you talk about this."

Damn liar.

"Do you remember what you did a week ago? Do you remember writing on the wall?"

"N-no."

"Did Dean do that? You said he did. I'm just asking because it turns out that Dean is very smart. Now I don't know what the numbers mean, but the words are Latin. It's part of an exorcism ritual, and the words are supposed to drive out evil."

Gabriel didn't answer.

"If Dean's smart, then that means you're smart too. I just want to talk to him, that's all, find out how he's doing, see if he needs anything. Do you think Dean's trying to protect you? Maybe he wants to drive the sickness away and make you both feel better."

Weddington looked puzzled when Gabriel snort-chuckled. "Did I say something funny?"

"No."

The door opened, and one of the orderlies stepped in. Snow. Tall new guy. Blond crewcut, young and solid as a brick wall. Snow had a faded yellowish purple bruise on his face, right next to his nose, and for a moment Gabriel imagined the feel of the man's skin underneath his knuckles.

Dr. Weddington sighed. "Well, I'll see you next week, Gabriel."

Gabriel just nodded. He sat patiently as Snow unbuckled the chair restraints, and then he was lifted up out of the chair and steered towards the door.

Snow didn't say anything until the door closed behind them, then Gabriel stumble-stepped forward, off balance, as Snow popped him a good one right in the back of his head.

"Owe you one from last week. Hit me in the face, remember? Better be glad you're Beck's crazy little bitch. Bitch."

"It wasn't me. It was Dean." The words stuck in Gabe's throat. They never listened to a damn thing he said. Why would they start listening now?

Snow dug his fingers into the top strap of Gabriel's straightjacket and lengthened his stride. "Bath time, freak."

Gabriel went where he was led.

* * *

Cold. He was _cold._

Didn't understand it. He'd prepared for this job, hadn't he? Gotten all the winter weather gear he and Sam would need, thermal gloves, insulated long johns, heavy parkas, you name it. The credit cards were good. Hell, they were golden. That bearwalker they were hunting was supposed to be one tough sonofabitch, but they'd covered all the angles.

So _why_ was he still freezing his ass off?

Dean opened his eyes.

The effort to look down at himself seemed to take about five minutes or so.

Dean blinked hazily, tried to put words to what he was seeing.

He was sitting in a tub. Big steel tub. Thick white sheets, wrapped all around him. Wet. The water was freezing.

"Hey there," Beck smiled. "Dean, is it?"

Dean jerked his head up. At least, he wanted to.

"Thought so." Beck said thoughtfully. "It's in the eyes, you know? Yours are a little lighter." He leaned forward, until they were nose to nose, and Dean really did think about leaning in a little further and biting the tip of this bastard's nose clean off. That was a plan, except his muscles weren't working. The cold settled around him like a thick, soft blanket, and even the thought of saying something smartass faded right away.

Just breathing and blinking was wearing him out. It was getting harder to force air in and out of his lungs. He felt sick to his stomach, and he dimly hoped he wasn't gonna puke.

"You're not the one I want," Beck said casually. "You know that, right? I want John. You're making things difficult for my boy, Dean."

" ...f-fuck...y-you....'m…not…he's…" The words wouldn't come. They were stuck inside him and he couldn't get them out. Dean's head bobbled, and he didn't even flinch when someone stepped close and fingers grabbed him by the chin, pushed his eyelid up and back. He was so fucking…tired…everything was blurring out…

Why was Dad doin' this? He'd done ever'thing he ever asked 'im to, right?

"He's close. Lips are blue," the other man said, and Dad nodded.

Dean shivered and shook so hard his teeth chattered. He didn't feel it when his head banged hard against the back of the tub. It was far away, and it didn't hurt.

_Dad said…_

_You're not the one I want._

_Dad said…_

_You're making things difficult for my boy, Dean._

The mouth of the world opened up, white and gaping, and swallowed Dean up whole.

* * *

Middle of Nowhere, Bumfuck New Mexico was bright, hard edged, and dusty, just like it had been for real, years ago.

"Damn, that's two days out of my life that I'm never gonna get back," Dean muttered. He threw the shovel into the open trunk.

Sam waited. He never knew when Dean would show up in his dreams, what he'd look like, or what he'd say when he _did _show.

Dean died in Sam's dreams. A lot. Sam saw him bloody, cursing, raging and defiant until the end, until the people that took him got tired of him, double-tapped him in the head, or strangled him from behind with a thick rope or chain. Dean starved to death in Sam's dreams, gagged and bound, whittled down to skin and bones. He lay dead in a deserted church somewhere, laid out on a black altar, an offering to some ancient bloodless god. Out in the woods somewhere in Sam's dreamscape Dean Winchester lay rotting underneath freshly turned dirt and leaves.

Not in this one. Sam blinked in the hot sun-dazzled air. This was one of the good dreams.

"Well," Dean pursed his lips, like he always did when he was about to say something he damn well knew Sam wasn't going to like. "We got lucky last time, y'know? That thing with Roy LaGrange and my heart. But…" Dean glanced down at his dusty work boots.

Or maybe not.

Dean looked tired, just as red-eyed as he'd looked that day. They'd spent the last forty eight hours staking one bruja after another. One less coven to worry about.

Sam steeled himself when Dean raised his head and looked directly at him. That always made Sam's heart ache, looking into those wide, moss green eyes.

"Luck runs out, bro'. Sooner or later, it always does. I know you don't wanna hear that, but that's just facts." The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards, and he shrugged carelessly. "I won't be here always. At some point you're probably gonna be by yourself. On your own."

Sam shook his head, his lips pressed into a too hard line. "Not gonna happen."

"What?" Dean looked puzzled.

"I said, that's not gonna happen. We make our own luck. We know things the rest of 'em out here don't."

The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards. "No shit? All right, then. We'll see."

The dream darkened, turned into bright neon lights, mirrors and wood paneling.

Kugel's Keg. Hibbing, Minnesota.

_Not again. Don't want to see this,_ Sam thought to himself. _Please, I don't…_

"Dude, we could have another round. It's still early." Dean rolled his eyes as he threw another dart. Bulls eye.

"Motel's down the road." Sam shook his head. "I'm tired, Dean. I gotta take a leak first."

Hell of a thing for his last words to be.

"You really know how to have fun, Grandma," Dean snarked. He shrugged into his jacket, picked up Dad's journal. "Okay. I'll meet you outside."

Famous last words. Dean didn't.

Five feet away from the Impala Sam found Dean's flashlight, his wallet, and Dad's journal on the ground. The flashlight was crushed; the journal flattened, with oily tire tracks on its pages.

The dream turned on itself, and by now Sam knew if he woke up just then, it would only pick up where he left off if he went back to sleep, just like it had so many times before.

He saw himself suit up the next day. FBI Agent David Matthews walked into Hibbing Sheriff's Department the next day. Deputy Kathleen Hudak was nice enough. Nice enough, and useless. She was red-headed, pleasantly efficient at her job, but by the end of the week Sam really felt he was wasting his time, that the entire universe had conspired to swallow one Dean Michael Winchester up whole, without a trace. Sam felt another, larger twinge of guilt for painting Dean as the ne'er do well, the black sheep of the Winchester family that he was tracking down for his worried aunt and uncle.

The camera on the highway was down for maintenance that night. No one saw or heard anything. Sam and Hudak canvassed the hospitals and every jail in the adjoining counties, for anyone fitting Dean's description, for two weeks.

Nothing.

On the last day Hudak looked at him sadly, told him that she really hoped he'd find Dean.

And _that_ was_ that._

Dad was there, in that big black truck of his, at the Shade Tree Motel when Sam pulled up.

Sam had called Bobby, of course. Let him know what was going on. Apparently Dean going missing was enough to make Bobby to forget that he threatened the elder Winchester with buckshot. Singer must have called John up and probably cussed him out for letting his sons twist in the wind like that.

Sam clenched his right hand into a fist at the sight of his father, just like he did in real life.

He did the same thing in his sleep.

Dream John seemed unconcerned and slightly annoyed.

_You're one less soldier,_ Sam thought to himself. "Bobby call you?"

"Yeah."

"So you ignored me when I called you before, when I told you that Dean was sick. Bobby calls and you come running, huh?"

John scowled. "You're being an ass about this, Sam. We got to work to do."

Yeah, Sam was. He figured he deserved _that_ much. It was _his_ friggin' dream, after all.

It was just one more job, at least that was the way John acted. He'd find Dean soon enough, rip him a new one for worrying the hell out of everyone, give him new coordinates for another job, another hunt, and then they would all go their separate ways.

Four months later, John disappeared into the night just as easily as Dean had. No voicemails, not even coordinates. Sam got it. At least, he thought he did: _You're not the son I want to hunt with._

It was harder at night. Night was when Sam couldn't pretend anymore. He was alone, _really_ alone, for the first time in his life.

After John left, Sam always booked a room with double twin beds.

Because. Just because.

Sam didn't throw away any of Dean's stuff. Not his duffel, his guns or knives, and certainly not the leather jacket, the skin or the car mags. Dean had one book, a paperback edition of _Mythology_, by Edith Hamilton. The pages were dog-eared. Well-read. Sam figured that some folks would have been surprised that Dean could even read, but he did. It wasn't all _Busty Asian Beauties_ and phone numbers hastily scrawled on cocktail napkins. Hell, Dean helped Sam with his homework back in grade school, through junior high.

Dad? Yeah, _right_.

Sam turned over on his side and stared at the other bed in the room. Dean never was an early riser, not even in Sam's waking dreams. Sam could see him lying on his belly, half out of the covers. Grey tee shirt and matching boxers, short spiky hair all sleep rumpled, face buried into his pillow, one arm underneath it.

Dean whistled in his sleep sometimes, because he'd gotten his nose broken when he was thirteen. Sam bitched good-naturedly about the noise sometimes, but the sound was a secret comfort to him. It told him that all was well. They'd made it through another hunt, another night.

Sam laid there staring. He held off blinking as long as he could, because when he finally did, Dean vanished into thin air.

* * *

Next post Friday


	4. ashes to ashes

_**A/N:**_ I would like to thank everyone who reviewed, everyone who put this story on their favorites list, and the author/story alerts, and everyone who's lurking. Thanks so much!

_**Warning:**_ there is implied bestiality in this chapter. Nothing really explicit, but it _is_ there.

* * *

_**Chapter 4 –**__** ashes to ashes**_

Five minutes. Five lousy minutes. Had to be the shortest hunt on record.

Jerry could see the guy's face in the moonlight as the barn door opened, slow, at first. The man had on a wrinkled brown business suit, and he looked hopeful, like he really thought he had a chance, like he really thought he could get away. He had the baseball bat in his hand that Lee left by the barn door, like that was really going to make a difference in what was going to happen.

Pa, Lee and Jerry crouched in the brush and watched him. Jerry had his long-handled ax with him. Pa had his rifle, and Lee had his shotgun. Lee tended to use firearms more than the machetes and clubs he'd used before. He favored his bad leg more sometimes. It was a damn shame, but Pa could outrun him now, and it was all due to Missy's green eyed freak.

Good riddance.

Twenty feet away from the barn door Brown Business Suit turned at the sound of someone in the brush to his left. He didn't have a chance in hell of getting away, because Missy was suddenly there right in front of him, slashing and stabbing at him. Missy knelt on the guy's chest after he went down.

"Damn it, Missy!" Lee yelled out.

She grunted and groaned with each strike, and she kept right on stabbing the man until Pa said quietly, "Missy."

That one word was enough. Missy's eyes narrowed as she jerked back and stared at Pa. Her face was pale, bloodstained, framed by long tangled brown hair.

Pa nodded at her. "Go in the house." He said softly. "Go on now."

Missy wiped her knife off on the man's tattered sleeve, got to her feet and walked past them to the house. She kept her head down.

Pa just sighed. He cradled his rifle in his arms, nodded towards the body on the ground. "You boys know why your sister is upset."

Lee opened his mouth to say something and Jerry shook his head. _Shut the hell up, you damn fool._

Pa stared at them both. "You take care of business out here, y'hear? I'll dress the meat when you're done."

"Yes sir."

Lee waited until Pa went back into the house. The old man's hearing was sharp as ever, and suddenly Lee had no desire to piss him off any further. As soon as the door closed Lee grunted. "She still won't let us touch her."

Jerry rolled his eyes as he put the ax down and lifted the body's feet. "That all you think about now?"

"Yeah. Those bitches in town want too much for it. And fuckin' sheep just ain't the same." Lee nodded towards the barn as he laid his rifle down on the ground. He stumbled a little as he leaned down to grab the man's wrists.

"Man's gotta do whatever he can to get through the day and night," Jerry smirked. "One hole's about as good as any other."

"Pa looks at us funny nowadays. I don't like it. Never seen Missy and the old man get that worked up before."

"How the hell did you _think_ they were gonna react?" Jerry huffed as they lifted the body between them.

"That kid's not Pa's dead brother."

"How the hell you know that for certain? Ever hear some of the things he and Pa talked about? That boy's what, twenty six? He knew stuff that happened when Pa was young."

"Don't buy it for a minute." Lee shook his head stubbornly as they walked the path back to the barn, the body swinging gently between them. Lee grunted. "This sumbitch is heavier than he looks."

Jerry shrugged. "Anyway, why the hell you bellyaching? He's been gone six months now. Gabe ain't coming back."

Lee veered a little too far to the right, and Business Suit's head throcked into the side of the door jamb. "So what if he does?"

Jerry grinned a little. "We might have to lose him. Again."

Lee laughed.

* * *

"I think you're gonna like it here in the pit," Barker drawled. He always did enjoy giving the newbies the grand tour, and this one, even though she was female, looked like a good one. He could see why Beck hired her as an orderly in the first place. She was tall and sturdy, with short brown hair and muscular arms. "Just make sure you don't ever refer to Ward A as 'the pit' around Doc Weddington." Barker huffed in disdain. "He likes to give these freaks their dignity."

"Fair enough." First day on the job, and Lena McCandless was liking this job even more than she thought she would. This was going to be easy money, easier than that job she'd had as a correctional officer at the Workhouse. She passed by the cell on the left, and then stopped and looked at the door tag.

John Doe 317.

She slid the slot open and stared.

The patient inside sat in the far corner, directly across from the door, with his head tilted forward slightly, his knees bent in front of him. He was barefoot, and even though he wore the regulation blue drawstring pants those legs of his were well-muscled and bow-legged. His strong jawline was dusted with light stubble, his face framed by shoulder length sandy blond hair. He was broad shouldered too, with a broad strong back; she could tell, even with that white straight jacket on.

He glanced up when the slot opened, but the first thing she noticed was he didn't move his head at all, just his eyes. She stared at him, and those wide green eyes of his stared right back, unblinking.

She gave a low whistle. "Damn. He's hot."

"Oh. _Him."_ Barker snorted. _"_Came in about six months ago. He's Beck's pet freak." Barker peered into the cell. John Doe 317 didn't drop his eyes like the other patients did. Only the bold and crazy ones stared staff in the eyes like that.

"Had a German Shepherd dog that used to stare at me like that." McCandless said flatly. "Shot him dead one day when he made a move on me."

Barker laughed.

"You get two for the price of one with this freak. There's John, and then there's Dean. Looks like Dean's out." Barker pulled out his walkie talkie as he slid the slot shut. "Gotta let Beck know."

* * *

Something thumped in his chest, slow and faint. His heartbeat belonged to someone else, in another room, another life maybe.

Dean looked up as the slot banged open.

…eyes in the walls, bright and mirror shiny and silver…

He stared right back, stared hard, because maybe, maybe he could see a glimpse of what he _used _to be.

What he _should_ be.

_Hey, Sasquatch…_

That's…that's not right.

… _afraid you're gonna get a little Nair in your shampoo again, huh?_

_Alright, just remember, you started it._

Different voice, not his, different…

_Please…_Dean thought to himself. He shouted it out inside his head._ Please…tell me what the hell is going on with me. Please…_

_Oh, oh, bring it on baldy._

His voice again, not what he wanted. Dean closed his eyes. Everything crumbled apart just then. The white noise inside his head rose up, drowned everything else out. He couldn't hold onto this, whatever it was, couldn't put the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. It slipped through his dull, clumsy fingers, same as always.

He was fucked anyway. No matter what he did, he was fucked, in more ways than one.

_You're not the one I want, Dean. _

The door swung open. Dean cursed and kicked out right up to the time he felt the needle prick its way into his skin.

* * *

Time to burn.

Dean arched his back. He was dimly aware of the rubber in his mouth, the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, the touch of metal at his temples. He felt like gagging, but all that was swept away by the fire that poured into his head, rolled over him from head to toe. His hands hooked into claws, and every muscle in his body clenched hard and tight, as his nerve endings sizzled and finally ignited like dry thin paper put to a match.

He was on the ceiling, and it wasn't so bad. They stood around and watched him burn.

His skin flaked off, first the top layer, and then another, small flakes of black ash that curled up around the edges.

The man looking up at him was tall and dark.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can…_

He seemed disappointed somehow. Dean didn't know why.

Next to him...long blonde hair, with a face like…like…

_Angels are watching over you, sweetie. Always._

He was little then, and she was bigger. He'd taken her place, and that was all right; she didn't seem mad about it. She stood there next to the dark man, and her skin was smooth and bright and not pale and bloody.

Dean decided he liked her better this way.

The man next to her was really tall, with shaggy brown hair. He stuck his chin out as he stared upwards at Dean. The look was intense, judging.

_That's the difference between you and me. I have a mind of my own; I'm not pathetic like you.  
_  
Dean wanted to close his eyes just then, but he couldn't.

'_m sorry, _Dean thought to whoever might be listening._ Sorry I fucked everything up. Sorry I'm not good enough… _

The apology was all he had. It was piss poor, just something he needed to say.

They didn't even blink as the ashes swirled in the air all around them.

Dean burned, fierce and bright.

* * *

Cal liked it in Ward D. The harmless ones were down here. He padded into the cell, and he decided he liked this just fine. It was nicer than the one he'd had before. He'd been a good boy now, and they decided to reward him for that.

_1911Exorcizamus 666 te, omnis 1967 immundus spiritus_

Cal stopped short. His short, stubby nose twitched. He waited. Waited for Anthony to tell him if this was a _good_ thing or not.

_omnis 124satanica1979 potestas, omnis 0502 incursio1983_

_Ah, _Anthony purred inside Cal's head._ We have an educated man among us._

Anthony sounded curious and relaxed, so Cal relaxed. It was better than the screeching, better than the times Anthony told him to cut himself.

Or cut other people up. Anthony liked to fingerpaint. Blood was good for that, too.

Withers the orderly huffed impatiently. "Now _what_, Cal?"

"Ummm…who wrote all this?"

"Another crazy like you," Withers said bluntly. "Why? Does it bother you? Maybe you think you need other accommodations, huh? This ain't the Hilton, pal."

"No." Cal smiled dreamily. He turned to stare at the floor and the walls. "I like it like this."

"I'm so thrilled you like this," Withers muttered sarcastically. He immediately decided that comment was a waste of his considerable wit. Lunch time was still three hours away, and he still had his other crazies to check on. Withers turned away, so he didn't see anything.

Cal's hazel eyes burned pitch black.

* * *

Next post: Monday. Sam's next.

_**A/N:**_ I've noticed that this fic is getting a_ lot_ of Favorite Story Alerts. Could you guys drop me a line and tell me why you like it? I'd appreciate it.


	5. damned if you do

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not for profit.

_**Warning:**_ This chapter contains dub non con.__

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 5 – damned if you do**_

"Well now, James. Can I call you James? Or Jimmy?" Dr. Michaelson's glasses slid even further down his nose as he consulted his notes.

The straightjacket James Novak wore didn't seem to bother him. He sat relaxed in the chair, shrugged his shoulders almost carelessly. "James or Jimmy. I'm okay with either one."

Michaelson scribbled in his notes: _Patient appears calm and reasonable prior to administration of prescribed meds. _

"You do understand why you've been committed here to Sweetbriar, don't you?"

"My wife, Amelia. She…she doesn't understand." It was the only time Jimmy's face frowned up slightly, the only time he seemed bothered. Michaelson wrote that down.

"Doesn't understand about _what_, James?"

"About my faith." The orderly by the door, a tall redheaded man named Crawford, snorted and shook his head in disbelief. Michaelson ignored him.

"It's been determined that you're a danger to yourself and to others. Why would you try to stick your arm into a pot of boiling water, James?"

"I didn't _try_ to do it," Jimmy said carefully, as if he was explaining something terribly complicated to a child. "I _did_ it. He_ asked_ me to do it."

"He who?"

"Castiel," Jimmy said simply.

"Castiel," Michaelson repeated doubtfully. "And Castiel is…"

"An angel of the Lord."

Crawford snorted, louder than before. Michaelson turned around and shot him a dirty look. "Now then," the doctor said as he turned back around. "Why would this angel ask you to disfigure yourself like that?"

"To prove my faith. I wasn't harmed."

"James, do you hear voices all the time?"

"No. Just Castiel."

"And does Castiel tell you to harm yourself all the time?"

"No." Jimmy smiled serenely. "That was the first and only time."

"So he _does_ talk to you?" Michaelson raised one eyebrow as he tapped his legal pad with his pen. "All the time?"

Another nod. "God chose me for a higher purpose."

Michaelson hastily wrote down this session note:_ Patient admits to constantly hearing the voice of Castiel, an angel of the Lord. The core of his delusion is that he is God's Chosen One. Recommended length of stay - six months minimum. Recommended treatment – electroshock, drugs, talk therapy._

"Chosen to do what?"

"Chosen to do the Lord's work. I've prayed for this all these years. My prayers have finally been answered."

"I see," Michaelson sighed heavily as he removed his glasses. "Well, you'll be with us for a period of at least ninety days. During that time you will be evaluated by either myself, Dr. Weddington or another doctor on the staff. I want you to understand something, James. Whether this is hard or easy depends entirely on you. If you refuse to take your meds, we will make sure you take them, and any other treatment that we deem necessary for you to get better."

Jimmy nodded. "I understand. I have work to do here."

Michaelson pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Well, so do we." He watched as Crawford came over, undid the chair restraints and helped him up. Jimmy got to his feet with a lot more grace than most of the patients who'd ever sat in that chair.

_Damn shame,_ Michaelson thought as Crawford escorted Jimmy out. _Seemed nice enough otherwise. Except for all that crazy talk about angels, of_ _course_.

_

* * *

_The one in the lead with the ax jigged left. John Winchester tracked him with the crossbow and fired. Head shot, right in the middle of his forehead. The light in his eyes went out almost immediately, and the ax man went down in an awkward, suddenly boneless tangle of arms and legs.

John calmly pulled another arrow from his quiver and re-loaded.

The other five cultists leaped forward, whooping and growling. They were a blur of naked skin, blue and red paint. Some of them wore the scalps of their victims, others had belts and necklaces of human hair, bones and ears. None of them had guns, but they all had machetes and clubs. Their faces lit up with wolfish glee when they saw John standing there.

One man. With a crossbow.

Stupid bastard.

They hit the center of the clearing at a dead run, and the ground collapsed underneath them. There was a sickeningly wet punching sound as the sharpened stakes punctured the soles of their feet and their legs. They still howled and shrieked as they thrashed around, but they were in agony now. The pit was wide, but it wasn't that deep. That was the whole point. None of this would work if he didn't leave at least one or two alive.

At least for the moment.

John walked forward with the crossbow resting against his shoulder. "Could have saved yourself a lot of damn trouble if you'd just answered my questions when I asked you nice," he growled roughly. He tensed up slightly as he stared at the ones wearing the scalps, then relaxed, just a little. Straight red hair, curly black hair. Not dark or sandy blond.

Not…Dean.

John pulled the photo out of his jacket pocket as he knelt down.

"…fucker…you fucker…" the one nearest him spat out.

John looked bored. He lowered the crossbow, pulled the trigger, and the arrow hit the mouthy one right between the eyes.

That got their attention, all right. Instead of screaming, the rest of them whimpered instead.

"Now. I'm looking for this man." Dean was relaxed in the picture; he stared directly into the camera with that slightly crooked smirk of his. "Anybody seen him? I won't ask again."

"..pr-pretty boy…pret-ty…" one gasped. "I…I s-seen h-him. We g-got h-him…"

"Yeah?"

"..p-pl-please...m-mister…"

"Where?"

"…u-up at the h-house….b-basement…you g-gotta h-help m-me…please…"

John smiled tightly. "Sure will."

Two hours later John pulled his truck onto the highway and headed north again. The smoke from the house fire and from the clearing was visible over the treetops. This far out in the sticks it was highly unlikely that any of the neighbors were going to call the local fire department.

John doubted that any of the neighbors were still alive, anyway.

The house was a graveyard. Bodies in each room, some pinned to the walls like trophies, with railroad spikes. Human skins were spreadeagled on the walls, and John had a really bad moment when he imagined that one of the skins was freckled.

It wasn't.

The worst part was the basement, the anticipation he'd felt at seeing Dean emaciated, reduced to skin and bones, still alive, staring at his father, the accusation flaring in his eyes.

"Why the fuck didn't you come for me sooner, Dad? Why?"

There was a young man chained to the wall down there. He was blond and he was pretty, but he wasn't alive.

And he wasn't Dean.

John spread salt and kerosene throughout the house. He could feel the heat at his back as he walked back to his truck parked by the clearing. It was quiet there now, except for the snap and crackle of the flames.

There was a Wal-mart nearby in this area. He'd have to stock up on more salt after this.

Credit cards were still good, so that was no problem.

* * *

Sam Winchester sat in the corner booth at Murphy's Stop N Go just outside Rockford, Illinois, right off the I-9. He caught a glimpse of battered brown leather, heard a whiskey smooth rumble of a voice.

The days of him fooling himself about Dean were long gone. Sam had his mind under control now, didn't see wide green eyes, a cocky smirk or a gunfighter's strut everywhere like he did before. Sam turned in that direction and allowed himself to take a good, long look.

The source of the noise was a dude sitting at the lunch counter. He was way older than Dean, and bald-headed.

Sam gave a mental shrug and went back to looking at the menu. Pig in a poke, then. The waitress (her nametag proclaimed her to be _Charlene_) came over, took his order and left.

It was hard in the beginning, after Dad ditched him. There was no one else to focus on. At the library Sam fooled himself into thinking that Dean was just around the corner, prowling the stacks, or at one of the large long wooden tables just out of eyesight, sitting in the middle of a pile of books.

Charlene showed up with coffee and Sam's meal twenty minutes later. Halfway through Sam's cell went off. He flipped it open, checked the ID first.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sam. What's the matter, your fingers broken or something? Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Been busy."

Bobby huffed. "I'll bet. Not gonna ask if you're okay, because I know you're not. Where the hell are you?"

"Rockford, Illinois."

"That thing with Edith Craine. How'd that go?"

"Didn't pan out." Sometimes Sam could still smell the lavender she wore. Lately that scent was mixed with the smell of lighter fluid, and the sound the salt made as he sprinkled it over her body.

"Uh huh." There was the sizzle of grease, cooking sounds, and Rumsfeld's excited yelp over the phone. "You coming this way?"

"I might. Got a few more leads I gotta follow."

"Jesus, Sam," Bobby said quietly. "Dean wouldn't want this for you. You know that, right?"

Sam sat there quietly, stared at the light smear of grease on his plate.

"You can hang up on me if you want to, boy. Gonna have my say, whether you want me to or not. You're not alone in this. You never were. Don't be a damn fool like your Daddy. And don't be a stranger, y'hear me?"

"Okay, Bobby."

Sam sat there quietly for a moment as he slipped the cell back into his pocket. He could see Dean walking towards the booth, juggling plates piled high with food in one hand, a handmade ice cream sundae in the other, those green eyes of his sparkling mischievously like he'd just won the friggin' jackpot.

Sam took a deep breath, and Dean vanished.

It was time to hit the road. He was burning daylight.

* * *

Dean watched the flames flicker across his skin, across his arms and chest. They were small bright pinpoints of light, and as the spray from the shower hit his skin steam and thick droplets of water rose up into the air.

He was wet. He was burning, and he was wet.

Mom was here. She stood in the water next to him and the flames ran down his body and pooled around his feet. She was here and she wasn't burning…

"…please…Mom…please.."

She stroked his brow, and he leaned into her touch. "You can tell me, Dean," she whispered. "You can."

"…nuh…no…" Something wasn't right. She wore white but it was different…

"Tell me about your life, Dean."

She was different. Maybe it was because he blinked when he looked at her. Dean tried not to blink when he looked at her, but he couldn't help it. His jaws hurt, and his head hurt.

"…saw you on the ceiling that night…"

"I know you did. I know. I'm back now. It's all right."

"…do what we do…and shut the hell up about it…" He stood with his palms flat against the wall as the water ran down his back and shoulders. "Dad said…he said…don't tell…don't…"

"You've been sick, sweetie. I want you to get better."

"Mom…no…please..."

"Tell me, Dean. Tell me."

Dean shook his head. "I can't…can't…remember…'m not right in the head…I don't know what's going on…Mom, please…tell me what's wrong with me….tell me…"

Mom stepped back. Dean knew that look. He couldn't remember exactly where else he'd seen it, but he knew.

_You're a freak,_ that look said. _Nothing but a freak._

People don't like freaks. People leave freaks.

Mom turned on her heel and walked away.

A hand slid down Dean's broad back. Fingers brushed against his freckled bare left cheek, and then stayed there, cupping the water-slick, well muscled flesh. Dean flinched.

"What the hell…kinda…father are you…touchin' me like that…"

Dad wasn't burning. Dad wasn't wet. "You want this, Dean. You know you do."

Dean felt himself stiffen. His belly flared with heat down there. None of this was right. His skin was so hungry for any kind of touch, his body reacted on its own. What he wanted didn't matter, and it hadn't mattered for a long time.

He remembered other touches, other places. Waking up with his face pressed into the floor padding or the wall as he was pushed into hard from behind. Teeth sunk into the hair at the back of his neck. Being stripped out of that straightjacket, or sometimes being fucked while he still had it on, strapped down, face up or face down, it didn't matter. It never did.

…_good boy…_

Dad smudged his thumb hard across Dean's lower lip. _You're mine,_ that gesture said. _I own you. All of you. _

Dean jerked back, wide-eyed. It wasn't the touch that startled him. It was_ his_ voice. His own voice. Rising up inside of him, getting louder with each touch.

_Be a good boy…_

Strong arms around his waist that pulled him closer.

"No…Dad, please…"

Lips that brushed against his left nipple, and then suckled the flesh there, made his back arch in spite of himself.

"...no..."

Teeth nipped against the soft thin skin underneath his jawline…

Dean drifted away now, pulled back underneath his skin.

He was safe deep inside now.

He dreamed of playing baseball in the back yard with Daddy. He was little, and his legs were still short and wobbly, but he giggled as he ran to get the ball. He was happy.

He was happy 'cause Momma told him he was going to have a little baby brother so very soon.

Dean was gonna be the best big brother ever...

* * *

"Be a good boy…" Gabriel whispered softly. "I'll be a good boy…"

Beck pulled back. He brushed long wet strands away from that perfect face, stared into those wide green eyes, and he grinned when he saw dark green.

"Missed you," Gabriel breathed softly.

"I know you did, baby, I know." Beck cupped his face with both hands as he captured that sweet, full mouth.

* * *

Next post Friday.


	6. dream a little dream

_**A/N:**_ Since this story is being monitored by Nazis, I am now allowing Anonymous reviews. Everyone who wants to comment on this fic can now do so in privacy and in peace, without further harassment. Any and all anon flames _**will**_ be deleted. Period.

Everyone should be able to read and review any fic on this site without interference from Zatnikatel's group. It's interesting that her supporters always portray her as the poor little victim. She's not a victim, and neither am I.

GoodSamaritan, I highly doubt that you and your people are_ everyone_ out here on FFnet and LJ. I've received some interesting emails these past few days. It's a shame when reviewers have to resort to creating spare logins and can't use their own pen names for fear of being harassed by a group of nitwits. I understand their reluctance. They don't want to be flamed by you people or have their own stories boycotted because they reviewed this fic.

I want to thank everyone for their support. It's much appreciated.

Zatnikatel, you have your Gabriel Bender fics and I have mine. I haven't asked anyone to boycott _**yours**_.

* * *

_**Chapter 6 –**__** dream a little dream**_

"Sam?"

Sam didn't move. The ropes were tight around his wrists, but there was still a little give there, enough that he could work with. He rotated his left wrist slightly. Their first mistake was typing his hands behind his back.

And his ankles weren't bound. Second mistake.

He kept his eyes closed, allowed his head to hang forward, his chin almost touching his chest.

The demon sounded bored. "Okay, now, Sammy boy. Enough playing possum. I know you're awake. Open your eyes or I'll slice your eyelids off with your own knife."

Sam blinked and opened his eyes.

"That's better," the thing purred. The teenaged boy it was wearing was tall, with shaggy brown hair. He was sixteen, a little shorter than Sam had been at that age. Sam froze when the kid stalked around the chair he was tied down to. A quick look down at himself revealed that the chair was just a large wooden, straightbacked chair with arms.

When he kid walked around to the front of the chair Sam moved his hands, just a little.

"Heard a lot about you," the demon muttered. "You realize how many of my kind you've sent back down to Hell these past four years?" It shook its head. "Not to mention how many innocent humans you've slaughtered. You're not even trying to save people anymore, are ya?" It clicked its tongue.

The kid leaned forward until they were nose to nose, his black eyes shining with excitement. "Wonder what Dean would say if he could see you now?"

"Fuck you."

The demon blinked. "Maybe later." It stuck out its tongue and licked the tip of Sam's nose. The stench of sulfur nearly took Sam's breath away. He jerked backwards, gagging. It straightened up and grinned. "Tasty. I can tell you where Dean's _not._ He's not down in Hell. We checked."

Sam glared at him.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam. Lighten up. You gotta admit yourself, you gave us the idea for this. You were so worried that we had big brother, that he was possessed, I figured that a good idea was a good idea." The kid stood there and eyed Sam up and down. "Open wide, Sammy boy. From now on, I'm driving."

The boy's mouth stretched open, and thick black smoke boiled out. The front part of the coil looked like a face, mouth turned up in a happy grin.

Sam moved.

The chair lifted up as the ropes loosened and fell away. Sam actually grinned to himself, teeth bared, feral, as the face in the smoke recoiled. Its mouth formed an O of surprise. Sam put his shoulder into the kid's stomach as he drove forward, pushing hard with his legs. He drove the top of his head into the underside of the kid's jaw, and the boy went limp as they slammed into the wall.

The demon settled down over Sam's head and shoulders. For a moment he couldn't see. He could hear the thing in his ears, screeching, wailing.

_---letmeinletmeinletmeinletmein--- _

The smoke lifted up and away. It flowed out the open window and up into the moonlit sky.

* * *

Women needed all that talk about faith and spirits, and that was fine for them. Abraham Bender believed in what he could see, hear and touch. He was content with his place in life. There was something to be said for having his own land, being able to do any damn thing he wanted on his own property.

As the oldest of the three brothers it was Abraham's right to claim his sister as his wife. It was their way, and always had been. Abagail Bender couldn't keep a baby inside her; there was something wrong with her woman parts. Some months she bled, some months she didn't. Pa was pleased two years later when she presented him with two fine strapping boys, first Jerry, and then Lee, a year later.

She was barren after that, but he had his boys now. She'd given him two sons, and that was worth something at least. Abagail was tall and sturdy, not bad to look at, and she knew her place. She cooked and took care of the boys.

They hunted humans twice a year, and the extra meat was good to have around, especially in the winter time. The boys grew up wide-eyed and eager, and they trailed after Pa, Jeremiah and Gabriel, watched everything they did.

Pa preferred to dress the meat himself; he was picky about that, preferred lean cuts. He sliced off the fat whenever he could.

Gabriel taught the boys how to rig a wire snare that would slash a hamstring muscle pretty good. It could hobble a human and leave a blood trail that was easy to follow.

Jeremiah was more hands on. He liked to use a club on the meat they hunted. Jerry and Lee were fast learners.

The good times rolled on, but they had to end sometime, and they did.

Later on Pa took a woman whose car stopped on the highway. She was a petite little thing, with long wavy brown hair. Pa had needs, and it wasn't enough to fuck the ones they hunted sometimes. He named her Grace, and he called her "Ma" all the time. She didn't seem to mind. She was shy and seemed grateful that he didn't kill her. She was a keeper, so Pa kept her.

Lee and Jerry accepted her without much fuss. They were good boys, the both of them.

Missy was born a year later. She was Pa's own special little girl, eager and cunning with bright, wild eyes. By the time Missy was nine Pa had gotten tired of Grace, so he got his ax and took her out into the barn. She wasn't his kin. Not really. The winter was cold and hard that year, and the pickings around Hibbing were slim.

Grace tasted tender and kind of bland.

One night years later Pa, Lee and Jerry sat in the truck on the parking lot of Kugel's Keg. The Keg was a usually good place to find someone to hunt. It wasn't the _only _place, of course. There were others, either rest stops, taverns or diners. The highways were always good. Cars and trucks broke down all the time.

The door to the Keg swung open, and a young man walked out. The kid moved like he could handle himself, all right. He was broad shouldered, muscular and agile.

Jerry huffed. "Lookit the pretty boy," he growled. "Pa, you gotta let us hunt this one."

Pa leaned forward. His eyes widened, then went to slits.

It was a perfect moment. Pa saw and smelled wet blood on the fallen leaves. He could hear Jeremiah and Abagail scream loud and long, but all he could feel was the weight of his shotgun in his hands, all he could see was the shocked look on his younger brother's face as Gabriel lay dying and breathed his last.

"A-bra-ham…p-pleas'…dun't hurt me… any…mor'…"

Right then and there, Pa _knew._ _Knew _he'd been forgiven his sins. The proof was right there, in front of him, wide green eyes and bow legs. All this was meant to be, because there was no one else on the parking lot at the time. It was a sign, a damn big one. What were the odds that he and Jerry and Lee would be out on a hunt this very same night, sitting on this very same parking lot, just in time to see this particular kid walk out?

The hair was cut shorter, darker and spiky, but it _was_ Gabriel. There wasn't any doubt.

"Go. _Go! _Get him to stop," Pa growled as he pushed at Jerry. "Go on now."

Jerry frowned, but he scrambled out of the trunk like he was told. The big lug tried to act conspicuous, but the boy knew something was up, especially when Lee got out seconds later and followed Jerry.

Even though Jerry and Lee were half head taller and broader than he was, the younger man didn't blink, didn't lose a step. Pa could see him settle himself, ready to uncoil, and there was no doubt in Pa's mind that his boys were going to get their asses kicked.

Sure enough, a moment later Jerry was sprawled on the ground on his back. Lee was on his knees.

The kid with Gabriel's face turned to face the headlights of Pa's truck.

* * *

Hours later Pa sat by Gabriel's bedside and held his hand. Gabriel's eyes changed in the light, went from light green to darker green, and then back to light again. Pa figured that was because of the pain and the drugs.

"Forgive me," Pa whispered. "Never got to tell you. Never had a chance. Wasn't you with Abagail. I know that now. It was Jeremiah. They were together, but I thought it was you."

Gabriel blinked slowly. Those eyes of his lightened, pale green. "…gotta get back to Sam," he whispered breathily. "…Dad said…tol' me to take care'a Sam…"

Pa wiped his forehead with that cool cloth, and Gabriel flinched violently. "You sonofabitch," he slurred, "…leave me alone… gotta go…I gotta…"

He tried to struggle up, weakly, but with his left arm and leg splinted like that, Gabe wasn't going anywhere on his own for a while. He swallowed thickly, eyes glazed over, filled with shifting shadows. "Abra-ham…'m warm again…"

All Pa could do was nod.

Gabriel came back wrong, but he came back. Pa figured it wasn't up to him to question the Lord's work. Maybe hitting him with the truck was a little much, but Pa had to made sure that he stayed this time.

There were bad days, later on, when Gabriel limped around the house. His eyes were too wild, too bright, and several times they had to tie him down on the bed while he cursed at them.

"Stop touchin' me, y'hear me? Gonna kill you when I get up from here…"

Those days Gabriel didn't seem to recognize Missy, and Pa hated to see that. "It's okay, Missy. It's all right. He came back a little wrong, that's all," Pa said gruffly. "He'll come back to you. You'll see."

Gabe always did, until the night Lee and Jerry came back without him.

Abraham Bender never considered himself to be religious, but he had a sense of things. Gabriel was family. He'd come back home once before. There was no reason he couldn't come back a second time.

Pa waited for a sign.

* * *

Sometimes he could feel the tat over his heart, even now, years later. It was just his imagination; Sam knew that. Carrying around an anti-possession amulet was a good idea; getting the symbol as a tat was even better. It was the image of a black pentagram surrounded by a ring of black flames. Amulets could get lost; tattoos were permanent. Unless, of course, he got his heart ripped out by some fugly, in which case being possessed by a demon would be the least of his worries.

It hurt like hell when he'd gotten it done, and most of the time he even forgot it was there, but sometimes Sam could feel the tattoo, flaring blackly over the space above his heart, especially when he came in close contact with a demon. It was one of the few times his imagination he let his imagination get the best of him.

The kid with the brown hair was still alive when Sam left, and Sam really wondered about that. In the past four years he'd gotten into the habit of cleaning up loose ends. Maybe he was sick and tired of smoke and fire. Maybe it was because with Sam gone maybe the demon wouldn't have any more use for the boy anyway. There was a time Sam would have waited until the kid woke up, talked to him, tried to make him feel better. Apologized, for cripes' sake. Not this time.

Whatever the reason, Sam left him alive and breathing. Dude was going to have issues enough as it was.

His cell went off as he turned the Impala onto the main highway.

"Sam?" John rumbled. "Don't hang up."

Sam rolled his eyes. _Damn._ "Not that you really seemed to care before, Dad. You left me, remember?"

John sighed. "I don't expect you to understand why I ---"

Sam huffed, abrupt and scornful. "Spare me. We were out here together, four months after Dean vanished. _You_ ditched _me_. No note, no warning. I woke up that morning and you were gone. The more things change, the more they stay the same, huh?"

"Dean understood why it had to be that way. He never ---"

"Dean wouldn't have said a word to you. You know that. He thinks the world of you, and I'll be damned if I know why."

"Sam, I ---"

"Don't call me again, Dad." Sam flipped the phone shut. He imagined John pulling his cell away from his ear, imagined the great hunter John Winchester glaring at his phone.

Sam smiled, just a little.

* * *

It was just bruises, y'know? He wasn't gonna cry about it.

Dean held his breath as he leaned over and laced up his boots. His left hip hurt like a bitch. His shoulders ached too. _Perks of the job,_ he thought grimly to himself.

He was stiff and sore from that last gig. Yeah, that was it. That 'geist they hunted the night before was a nasty bastard, and getting to its earthly remains hadn't been easy. They couldn't be in a basement or a yard somewhere. Oh hell, no, that would have been too friggin' easy. The bones were in a crawlspace, underneath the house. In the crawlspace with the rats and the roaches and the cobwebs. Another craptastic day at the office.

He listened to Sam in the shower, and by the time Sam came out half dressed in his pants and t shirt Dean had on his leather jacket. He could walk this off, whatever it was. "Dude, we're burning daylight. I need coffee. Now."

Sam's bitchface came out just then, and that was normal.

What happened after _that_, wasn't.

Something buzzed and murmured around his ears. He thought it was a fly or a mosquito at first, but then it sounded like words

_...good boy..._

And that was fucked up. He was hearing things.

_...be a good boy..._

He always fell asleep with the television on. Probably picked up some dialogue from some lame ass movie after Sam snagged the remote.

Yeah, that was it. Had to be.

He couldn't shake this feeling that something wasn't quite right. Dean checked the Impala's trunk again before they left the Starlight Inn. Bags of rock salt, check. Shotguns? Check. Holy water? Double check.

Sam stood there with his hands jammed into his jacket pockets, looking all big and goofy and totally amused. "You forget something, Grandma?"

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. "Shut the hell up and get in the car."

They stopped for the night half a state later, at another skeezy motel. Dean used the john and stopped and stared at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. The underside of his neck, right underneath his jaw was red and tender. He leaned into the mirror and stared at his neck.

Teethmarks.

_Mine now. _The whisper was soft and rough. _All mine. _

Dean jerked as fingers slid over his shoulders, down his arms. He couldn't see anything, but he could feel it, against his clothes, then slick and wet against bare skin.

_No…please…_

_So tight, John. You're so damn tight… _

Dean's eyes widened. His heart hammered against his ribs. He had the sensation of being spread from behind, filled almost to the point of bursting. The feeling shifted in and out. He closed his eyes, leaned against the sink, gripped the porcelain so hard his fingers cramped. His balls and his cock ached. He felt twinges of pain, deep and sharp, all over his body. He felt violated, and worse yet he knew what had happened, what was still happening. He didn't want it, didn't want any of it. And he knew he could not stop it.

In that moment, Dean knew.

He knew what was out there.

…_don't want you Dean. I want John…_

What was waiting for him _when_ he woke up.

_Mine now, boy, all mine…_

_If_ he_ wanted_ to wake up.

_Tired,_ Dean thought to himself. _I'm so fucking tired. Just need to rest for a_ _while._ He leaned over, the top of his head touching the mirror, and the sense of fatigue settled over him, thick and heavy, past his muscles, right down to his core. _Just need to rest. That's all. Just for a little bit…_

The sensation of hands brushing over his body, teeth scraping against his skin fell away, and the sudden absence of feeling made him weak in the knees. Dean stumbled as he turned for the door. He could barely feel the doorknob as he turned it.

Sam sat at the table with his laptop, head down, his face set in a blank mask of concentration. Dean stared dully at his brother, and yeah, okay, that was good, that was right. That was what Dean wanted all along.

Just Sam and the open road and the hunt, that was all.

Dean crawled onto his bed, closed his eyes as his face hit the pillow.

It was good to dream.

* * *

Next post Monday.


	7. strange days and greener pastures

_**A/N:**_ If I did not respond to the bashing by Zat's group, I would bet that the general consensus would be, "Well, it _must_ be true. silver ruffian didn't defend herself." Now I'm not mentioning this every chapter, but when I am attacked by her people, I _will _defend myself, and I'm not going to stop posting this story. I have never called for a boycott against _her_ fics, and I have never harassed anyone who supported her. As a matter of fact, I have always said that people should read both stories. On the other hand, her group attempted to boycott this fic and they have _unsuccessfully_ harassed reviewers in the past. Actions speak louder than words.

* * *

_**Chapter 7- strange days and greener pastures **_

"Gotta run, kiddo," Anthony murmured inside Cal's head.

Cal knew what _that_ meant. He obediently opened his mouth wide and Anthony came pouring out, just as orderly Franklin Withers opened the door slot to Cal's cell to take a look inside.

Anthony moved through the air like a huge black snake uncoiling. Withers had the habit of chewing gum all the time and his mouth was already half open. Anthony pushed his way between the man's lips and down he went.

Nobody noticed the way Withers eyes turned pitch black and then normal brown again. Anthony made Withers wink at him. "Be a good little boy, Cal. I'll be back."

Cal stood there blinking in front of the cell door as the slot banged shut. The meds he was on wasn't enough to quiet that jittery feeling he had inside him. He was empty now, and he hated that. Cal had abandonment issues; at least that was what the docs told him.

There was nothing else to do but wait. Cal sat on the floor and he ran his fingers over the words and numbers written in black.

_1911Exorcizamus 666 te, omnis 1967 immundus spiritus_

Anthony was going to see the educated man.

Cal just hoped Anthony wouldn't like him better, and decide to fill _him_ up instead.

* * *

"Sam hung up on me," John muttered. He snapped the cell phone shut and slipped it into his pocket.

John fidgeted on the yellow and green flowered couch. He pulled his knees in so that he wouldn't bang them against the oval wooden coffee table. He always felt awkward, too large, too clumsy and rough whenever he visited this place.

Missouri sighed as she sat back in the easy chair. "I knew he would."

John looked at her sharply and she shrugged. "Doesn't take a psychic to predict that, John. After all these years? Sam thinks you've deserted them both."

"I haven't. You_ know_ I haven't."

"I know. You would have sold yourself in a heartbeat at that crossroads if I hadn't called you first." She shook her head. "Dean wouldn't have wanted you to do that. You_ know_ he wouldn't."

John leaned forward, put both elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands in front of him. He was steeling himself for whatever she said next. "Tell me about his dreams."

"They're awful," she said simply. "Dean's lost in his own head. He's surrounded by darkness. Not a demon, though. A lost soul. The other one didn't cross over. He didn't want to. I can't guarantee a happy ending, but all I do know is that you and Sam _have_ to come together as a family for this. Because this other one has family too."

John stared intently at her face.

"Dean's lived with them all these years. He's lived as they do. They're hunters, John."

John blinked.

"They hunt humans. For sport. And for food. Dean's not in control of his body most days."

John sighed. That curiously blank look on his face was pure John Winchester. "Does Dean know what's going on?"

"Sometimes. He never stopped fighting, John. He's confused. He knows something is wrong, but he doesn't know what. I've seen his body do things. Terrible things." Missouri shook her head slowly, and John got it. _Don't ask me for details_, that gesture said. _Just don't._

She sat up straighter in the chair. "There will come a time, very very soon when the others find out where Dean is, and they'll come for him. Then Dean will be lost to you and Sam forever."

"And you can't tell me exactly where he is now?"

"No. I don't know exactly where he is."

John grunted. He hated puzzles. Always had. Dealing with psychics was never easy, and Missouri was the _only_ one he ever trusted.

"Sam will be at Bobby Singer's place in two weeks time. You have to be there when Sam comes. I'm not going to lie and say it's going to be easy, because it's not going to be. You follow your heart with this, John. You have to."

"Why?"

"Why? That's all part of the great mystery," She leaned forward and put her right hand gently, lightly, on John's arm. "You'll see your boy again, but I have to tell you that it will be hard and dangerous, for you, for Sam, and especially for Dean. Sometimes the Lord does work in mysterious ways. He'll make a way. He'll give you a sign."

John scowled darkly. "A sign?"

"Yes." A small, sad smile crossed Missouri's features. "A sign to let you know where Dean is."

* * *

_Howdy, sport. _

_Huh?_ He was in the hallway. Withers nodded at some of the other orderlies as he walked by. He couldn't stop himself from walking.

_Just wanna ask you about the writing in Cal's cell,_ the voice inside his head whispered. _Who wrote those words on the floor?_

_Who the hell are you?_

_Call me an interested observer. Sooner you tell me, the sooner I'll leave you alone. _

Withers saw the staff office for the ward at the other end of the hallway. He wanted to walk in there, but his body wasn't listening. It turned instead for the courtyard, and suddenly he was through the double doors and outside.

Withers' body turned towards one of the wrought iron benches near the walkway. He sat down on the bench with a thump.

_Oh yeah. That's better. Hell of a day, huh?_

This was side effects from those wild blues he'd taken. Bad drugs. Yeah, that was it. He hadn't known the chick he bought the pills from the night before. Shoulda asked Beck for some. Beck always did have the good stuff. Rumor was the dude had his own lab at home.

That made Withers think of Beck's pet green eyed freak. The kid had developed a real taste for Beck's special blend, devil's sunrise: _Sit up, roll over, spread, that's a good boy._

The voice inside Withers head got quiet. So quiet Withers thought he was alone in there. Then: _Well, well, well. Dean._

"That's one of his names," Withers said out loud. "We call him John. John Doe 317. Came in about six months ago."

One of the nurses, a tall black woman by the name of Beverly, was walking by on her way in to work. She frowned and looked over. "Frank? You okay?"

_Thank God._ Withers felt his mouth open up, heard himself say, "I'm fine, thanks. Keep walking, you nosy bitch, and fuck you."

Beverly huffed indignantly and walked even faster.

_John boy. Where is he?_

"Ward A. The...the pit."

_Okay then. Gonna do you a favor, Frankie boy, and then I'm gonna leave you alone._ Withers saw his right hand pull out his key ring, and without meaning to he thought about what keys unlocked which door.

The voice sounded happy. _All righty. Let's go._

_

* * *

_Gabriel lay on his side in his cell. His skin was still damp from the shower, and the white scrub pants and top they gave him to wear stuck to his skin in places. The side of his neck and the underside of his jaw was red from Beck's teethmarks. Gabe ached all over, but it was in a pleasant, well used way, even though his hipbones were sore with bruises in the shape of Beck's fingerprints and nails.

Gabe hugged his knees up to his chest and stared blankly into space. He wasn't wearing a straightjacket. That was _something_, wasn't it?

Beck would forgive him. If he hadn't, he would. At least, Gabriel hoped he would.

Dean wasn't gone, not entirely, but he wasn't really around, either. Something had changed, and Gabriel didn't know what.

The regular meds made him feel weak and filled his head with cotton. It was like his anger was in another room. He could see it but he couldn't touch it. He thought about Lee, thought about Jerry, and he'd gotten so fucking angry his throat seemed to close up. Felt like he was strangling. He never felt that way on red pill days. He was worthless and shabby now.

Gabe thought of Missy, and Abraham. They hadn't come for him. After all this time, they hadn't. Maybe they were all in it together. Maybe this was one last joke they wanted to play on him.

He didn't move, not even when he heard the door open behind him.

"That was good for a start," Beck drawled.

Gabriel didn't move, not even when Beck knelt behind him. "Welcome back, kiddo." Beck ran his hand up and down Gabe's arm, from shoulder to elbow. "Missed you, John. You know that."

Beck's broad fingers carded Gabriel's shoulder length hair, pulled the strands back from his face, over his neck.

"I can't control Dean," Gabriel muttered. "I can't."

"I know, baby. You need some help, that's all." Beck took the brown plastic pill bottle out of his pocket, held it up where Gabe could see it and shook the bottle. Gabriel went to attention like a eager hound dog straining at the end of a leash.

Gabriel closed his eyes. "You're…you're still mad at me." _Please…please don't tease me like this._ No way he would _ever_ say that out loud.

"No. No, I'm not. Maybe I shouldn't have cut you off like that."

Something in Gabe's throat clicked and he swallowed hard as the bottle went out of his sight. There was a slight popping sound, plastic against plastic.

"Please," Gabriel whispered, "please…"

"It's all right," Beck said, and his voice was soft and warm. "Get up. On your knees. Turn around."

He was still stiff and sore, but he got to his knees, slowly. Gabe looked up at Beck and then down at the pill in the palm of Beck's hand.

Devil's sunrise.

Gabriel bowed his head. The floor seemed to slid out from underneath his knees. He didn't move. He stared at Beck's work boots instead. Every muscle in his body wanted to reach for the pill, but he didn't dare. He wouldn't move, _couldn't _move, until, _unless_ he was _told_ to.

"It's yours, John." Beck lowered his hand until it was level with Gabriel's mouth. "Take it."

Gabe leaned forward. His lips very delicately brushed against the rough, chapped skin of Beck's palm as he sucked the pill up between his mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed the pill, and then Gabriel very lovingly kissed Beck's palm.

Beck offered an open water bottle just then, and Gabriel drank, because Beck _wanted _him to drink.

Beck ran his fingers through Gabriel's hair, and he leaned into the touch. "That's my good boy."

* * *

"_What…what the fuck are you doing?"_

_Gonna do you a favor, Frankie boy,_ the voice purred. The coil of rope was heavy on his shoulders. Withers saw himself unlocking the door to the bell tower.

There were cautious footsteps on the stairwell below.

"Hey, Frank? Withers?"

"What the hell's wrong with you, man?"

He'd been followed by some of the other orderlies and staff. Apparently Beverly the bitch had told everyone what he'd said, and the sight of him walking through the ward twitching and talking to himself had been enough to let folks know something wasn't right.

"No, wait. You said you'd leave me alone if I told you what you wanted---"

_Yeah. Yeah, I did._ He leaned down and picked up this long two by four and jammed it up against the door. _You hate this job, don't you?_

"What? I don't ---"

_You hate your life. I know. Life on earth is a bitch, isn't it? You're looking for better. You can do better._ Withers watched his hands grip the edge of the huge iron bell and pull it towards him effortlessly. One end of the rope was securely tied around the bell clapper.

_You're looking for greener pastures. _

Withers' hands picked up the rope and went to work. In about a minute he was staring at a hangman's noose.

_I can help you, buddy. Gonna do you a solid. _

He actually yelped when the noose went around his neck, snuggled up tight against the underside of his jaw.

"No. Please, you can't…"

_Can't? Why not?_ His stolen hands made sure the knot was directly behind his left ear. _You'll thank me for this later._

Withers walked over to the ledge and stepped off.

There was a moment when he actually thought to himself that it wasn't that bad. He hung suspended in midair, and then he began to drop.

_Murder victims always go to heaven. _The voice chirruped. _Isn't that nice?_

There was a hard, sharp pain. Everything went red, and then black.

* * *

_Perdition,_ Jimmy Novak thought to himself. _This is surely Perdition._

He took his meds, and he did as the staff requested. They seemed to be waiting for him to do something, to be disobedient, but he never was.

It wasn't time. Not yet.

He took his treatments, the electroshock therapy, two sessions so far. He was in a different ward now. He had more freedom. "If you keep this up, James," Dr. Michaelson had told him, "you can go home soon."

As much as he loved his family, Jimmy doubted _that_.

Jimmy closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. He sat on one of the benches in the courtyard below, and he didn't move, not even when he heard the bell in the bell tower sound off, quick and jerky, not the melodious full sound he'd heard on normal occasions.

Jimmy didn't move, didn't open his eyes, not even when the shrieks and screams of both staff and patients ripped through the air.

_All is well,_ he thought to himself. _The Lord works in mysterious ways._

_

* * *

_Next post Friday


	8. for whom the bell tolls

_**A/N: **_I want to thank everyone who has given me support for this story. I appreciate all the reviews, the story/author alerts, the inside info and words of encouragement. The chapter title (and lyrics) is taken from the song _For Whom The Bell Tolls_, by Metallica.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 8 – for whom the bell tolls**_

The demon poured out of Withers' mouth just as the rope tightened and the man's neck snapped. It had many names over the years. Anthony was just one of them.

Meg was another.

* * *

Ben Murray hated Sweetbriar State Hospital. He came to see his sister every Friday, which was his usual off day from the factory. Ben really didn't know if Georgia even recognized him. He held her hand in the visitors' area, and he talked to her about the family, and how his job was going. He told her he missed her. She smiled blankly at him the whole time and nodded in all the right conversational pauses, but he was never sure that she even knew he was there.

Ben pulled out his keys just as some godawful clanging shook the air high over his head. Sounded like church bells or something, and he turned, tilted his head upward to look.

There was smoke in the sky. Ben stood there by his truck, and he watched as this big coil of black smoke moved through the sky. He didn't understand it, but it didn't worry him all that much. It was just smoke, right?

Nothing to get alarmed about.

Five minutes later Ben's body started the ignition and pulled out from the parking lot. Meg looked up into the rear view mirror and grinned as his eyes turned pitch black. It was too bad about Cal, but he was boring anyway.

_Dean Winchester at Sweetbriar. Big bad hunter in a mental institution. _Ben's fingers tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the ramp for the highway._ This is too good not to_ _share._

* * *

Two hours after police pulled Withers' body back into the bell tower, patient Calvin Meyers was found dead in his cell. Apparently he chewed open the veins in both wrists. The words LEFT ME were scrawled on the wall over the bed.

There was a_ lot_ of blood.

* * *

Jimmy Novak quietly walked into his room and sat down on the bed without being told. Dr. Michaelson was pleased about that.

Dr. Weddington called for a lockdown of the place until everything could be sorted out. The sound of the bells sent the more susceptible patients into a tailspin. The sunroom had to be cleared out and all the patients were escorted back to their cells. For a time the walls of Sweetbriar vibrated with cries and shouts and screams. The noise was deafening, and Beck organized teams of orderlies and nurses who went from room to room dispensing medication.

By the end of the day Beck had a pretty good tension headache. He popped two aspirin and stayed over to supervise. He wasn't about to touch any of the red pills in the medicine bottle he carried. It was the same formula, just a new batch that he'd made a little stronger, increased the percentage of Amobarbital, just for Dean.

Seeing two entirely different alters in the same body was something that Beck had seen before. Dean favored his left hip; John didn't show signs of any disability. Each one had different reactions to the drugs. Beck wondered about Dean's so-called 'daddy issues'. He was worrisome, a personality that Beck frankly didn't want to deal with. Maybe the extra dosage would be enough to put Dean down and make him stay there for good.

Beck had to talk to the cops and Dr. Weddington about recently deceased Eldon Withers, and no sir, he hadn't noticed any strange behavior from him. Withers was a model employee, and in Beck's world, that was certainly true. He bought drugs from Beck occasionally, he was hands on with the patients, he kept his damn mouth shut and he didn't ask any questions. Good man.

No one entered John Doe 317's cell. By the time Beck remembered to go back and check on John, it was later that evening.

* * *

Gabriel sat in a corner of the cell and listened. His skin throbbed every time he took a breath. Every time he blinked his eyelids made he heard a low, booming sound, like the noise the white bees always made when they came out.

_No, please…_Gabriel looked around warily. They might come out the walls this time, instead of out of thin air. He was too tired to do anything about it if they did.

Hadn't felt this way before. Gabe could vaguely remember the first time he took the pills, and he wasn't sure if he'd felt this way before. He hadn't, had he? Beck could have told him whether he had or not, but Beck had to leave. Gabriel could hear the sound of bells overhead, and the patients in Ward A howled like banshees.

Gabriel's next door neighbor, Tom Stephani, screamed for Jesus to help him and begged his dead family to stop tormenting him. He said he was really sorry he killed them all.

Stephani threw himself against the walls, and it felt like a heartbeat, slow and steady.

The noise stopped soon enough.

Beck didn't come back, but Abraham Bender did.

He was all black scratchy lines and static at first. Abraham stood in the center of the cell and the sight of the shotgun cradled in his arm made Gabriel cringe.

Abraham pointed the barrel of the shotgun down towards the floor. "Look at you. Got you all strung out on those pills." He shook his head in disgust. "Thought you were better than this, little brother."

"You didn't come for me." Gabriel swallowed hard. "None'a you did."

"I know a man's gotta do things to get along. But _this_?" Abraham spat on the floor. "We hunt and fuck these sonsofbitches. If I found you by the side of the road like this, I'd hunt you myself."

Gabriel blinked, and Missy was there.

Her long brown hair was a mass of snarls and tangles, her face smudged with dirt and mud. She wore a long brown dress that was tattered and ragged around the edges, slouchy brown socks and scuffed workboots. Gabriel knew, even though he couldn't see them, that her knees were scarred and scabbed over, and he could practically feel the self-inflicted slash marks on both arms, even though her arms were covered by long sleeves.

Missy cocked her head to one side and stared at him, and her eyes were bright with wonder and hurt. Gabriel couldn't understand why she was looking at him like that.

"Don't love me anymore," she whispered sadly. "Is that it?"

"…nuh…no…t-that's n-not…" Gabriel shivered uncontrollably. He clenched his jaws to stop his teeth from chattering.

"You left me, Gabriel. Why'd you leave me?"

"Please…I can't…can't remember…" The words were too damn hard to get out.

Lee and Jerry laughed.

Gabriel recoiled backwards into the corner. They were up in his face, the both of them. He could smell funk, ground-in dirt, rotgut and dried blood.

"Sure you do, freak. You remember just fine." Lee fisted the front of Gabriel's top and jerked him up on his feet. Jerry pressed into Gabriel from behind, slowly rubbed his body up and down against Gabriel's back .

"We ditched you, remember?" Lee grinned, wide and cheerful. "Ol' hoss there smacked you upside the head and we dumped you out on that parking lot just like you were trash."

Jerry laughed into the shell of Gabriel's right ear, a blast of bad breath and rotten meat that made Gabriel flinch. "You musta wandered away and the cops picked you up later on."

It was hot now, so warm in the cell that Gabriel couldn't catch his breath.

Lee let go and Gabriel hit the padded floor on his hands and knees.

Jerry's boot connected with Gabriel's kidneys. It was a bright, blinding pain that took his breath away. Lee slammed his boot down on Gabe's right hand. Bones broke, but Gabriel barely felt it. His body shivered and shook. His eyes rolled white and he was barely conscious as he sank back down on his right side.

It was too much trouble to keep his eyes closed, so Gabriel closed them.

The air around him felt heavy, so heavy it was hard to draw it into his lungs, so after a time Gabriel stopped trying to breathe.

The slot in the door opened up behind him, but Gabriel didn't notice.

* * *

Tuesday was a black dog in Canton, Ohio.

_Make his fight on the hill in the early day  
Constant chill deep inside_

Dean scowled as he looked down at his work boots. He strood at the gas pump while his baby got filled up. Damn dog gnawed on them when he played bait to lure the bastard in. Well, the credit cards were good. Maybe it was time to stop by Wal-Mart and get a new pair.

Sam strolled back from the men's room just as the pump stopped. Time to go.

_Shouting gun, on they run through the endless gray  
On they fight, for they are right, yes, but who's to say?_

Wednesday, no rest for the wicked. It was all a blur now. Miles on the road, one skeezy hotel room after another. The fugs came out of the woodwork. Vengeful spirits and other assorted spooks, 'geists with dead on aim that threw everything at the brothers but the kitchen sink.

No word from Dad. _That_ bothered Dean. A lot, more than the way he felt nowadays. He didn't show it, though. Sam had the bitchface these days about enough things. Bringing up John Winchester's lousy parenting skills was _guaranteed _to get Sam started.

Dean kept a headache all the time. Food tasted funny, like dirty metal, but he wasn't gonna cry about it. He ignored it. He moved on.

He and Sam laid that spirit to rest in Breese, Illinois. Dean noticed those teethmarks on his neck when he shaved the morning after. It was no big deal.

_For a hill, men would kill. Why? They do not know  
Stiffend wounds test their pride_

He couldn't stay warm. Maybe he was coming down with something. Some bug or the flu. Maybe that hot dog he'd eaten at that rest stop didn't agree with him. Yeah, that was it.

_Men of five, still alive through the raging glow  
Gone insane from the pain that they surely know_

His skin felt funny, too, like it was stretched too tight over his bones. And that constant ringing in his ears came and went.

They had a job to do, and all these minor aches and pains didn't mean a thing. It was him and Sam and the Impala and the open road, it was the hunt, the family business, saving people, killing things, and _hell yeah_, it would be nice if Dad checked in every once in a while, but Dean wasn't gonna cry about that, _either_. This was what he _had_, what he _wanted_.

There was something else out there, just beyond the edge of his vision and the reach of his hands that he was pretty damn sure that he _didn't_ want.

_Come on freak. Doc wants to see ya._

Dean could swear sometimes he could taste something like rubber in his mouth. His skin prickled like he'd stuck his finger into a live socket.

_You're not the one I want. Dean…_

He wasn't sleeping very well at night. Bad dreams. Dad touching him, what social workers and shrinks called _bad touches_, only Dad _never_ touched him like that. Dean was sure of it. Yeah, the old man was known for sending him out on endurance runs or making him dig a trench with a teaspoon, and Dad could make Dean doubt himself just by quirking an eyebrow at him, but John Winchester never looked at his eldest son like _that_, never claimed him with his mouth and his hands and body and the only thing for it was to fuck him into the mattress while calling Dean by a name he didn't even recognize.

_We just want to see you get better._

Dean remembered words like 'devil's sunrise' and he didn't know why but he hated the color red.

_Blackened roar, massive roar, fills the crumbling sky  
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry  
Stranger now are his eyes to this mystery_

It all came to a head in Harmon, Indiana. At least, that was where Dean thought he was. Rumor was the Lawson house ate people. Franklin County had the highest rate of missing persons in the whole damn state of Indiana, and this huge wreck of a house was at the center of all the disappearances in the county.

The place gave him the creeps. It was huge, and the windows looked like dark mouths, not eyes. He usually was pretty level headed, but the image stuck with him, and he didn't know why.

Sam gave him this look as they got out of the car.

"Dude? You okay?"

Dean couldn't hide the brief shock of pain that jittered across his face when he straightened up.

_So sweet, John, _the voice whispered._ You really are._ Phantom hands skittered across his neck and down his back and Dean flinched.

"I'm fine. Just super."

Sam didn't seem convinced. He looked up at the sky and frowned. "It's daylight, Dean. Nothing's gonna happen now. I can do this by myself."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Stop hovering, Grandma. Let's get this done. Cover more ground if we split up."

"Don't leave me, Dean," Sam said, and the serious tone in his voice made Dean freeze right in his tracks. Sam shouldn't have to look like that, horribly young and vulnerable all of a sudden.

"What?"

Sam sighed. "I said…don't leave me. You don't have to go back out there. You don't."

_He hears the silence so loud  
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be  
Now they see what will be, blinded eyes to see_

Something pulled at Dean. He could feel it just then, more hands, all over his body.

_Get him up on the table, now ---_

He stumbled into the side of the Impala, stumbled into his girl hard enough to leave a bruise on his left hip, just another one on top of all the other bruises that were already there now. Dean's knees bucked, and he was down on the ground, on his knees, staring at the thick green grass between his fingers. He couldn't catch his breath.

_For whom the bell tolls  
Time marches on  
For whom the bell tolls_

"Don't leave me, Dean, please don't leave me…"

Sam and the world drew away from Dean in a long, slow spiral.

* * *

_Next post Monday._


	9. third eye wide open

_**A/N:**_ It's Monday. Oh before I forget, in this AU things have been re-arranged a little. In the show, Meg didn't encounter Sam until the end of the first season. In this AU _Scarecrow_ happened before _The Benders_.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

_**Chapter 9 – third eye wide open**_

At the same time John Doe 317 was rushed into the hospital ward at Sweetbriar State Hospital, Sam Winchester was at the Sunny Daze Inn, less than half a state away from Bobby Singer's place. Sam ignored the heavy, urgent growling of his stomach as he took off his shirt and slipped his boots and socks off. He hadn't had anything to eat for three straight days, and tonight was the last night.

The salt lines around the doors and windows were thick and unbroken. Outside on the parking lot the Impala sat, sleek black and gleaming, in the parking spot directly opposite the door. Underneath the car there was a devil's trap Sam had chalked onto the concrete; she was secure for the night.

Sam sat down on the area rug he'd unfurled, wrong side up, on the floor. The rug itself was nothing special; he'd bought it from Wal-Mart about two years ago. Sam needed something just as mobile as he was, a mat big enough for what he had in mind, something he could carry with him from place to place. The sigil drawn on the wrong side of the rug was composed of three circles, one inside the other. Sam was also pretty damn sure that Bobby Singer would not have approved of the sigil, the words that were scrawled inside the curves, or the fact that the entire symbol was carefully drawn with Sam's own blood.

He took one last glance around the room, knowing from experience that once he drank, he wouldn't be in any condition to correct anything. Or defend himself if things went wrong.

Sam picked up the small wooden bowl off the nightstand and carefully placed it at the edge of the outermost circle. His hands did not shake; not one drop was spilled.

The ayahuasca infusion in the bowl reeked. So did the air in the room. Ayahuasca meant "vine of souls", or "spirit vine." It was used for divination in certain areas of the world. The smell was heavy, woody, more like ground up grass, rank green wood, and bile, thick and bitter. The only thing Sam could even remotely compare it to was the green tea Jess had tried to get him to drink when they were together at Stanford. Sam had never been a tea person, and Jess used to rag on him about that.

Of course, before that time and since, Sam had smelled worse things than green tea.

The colors swirled, sometimes greenish black, sometimes dark green with a hint of pale yellow as Sam stared down into the bowl. This was his third time for this. The first time he'd performed this ritual, Dean's presence flickered pale and ghostlike in the center of the room.

The second time Dean guttered out like a candle in a high wind.

Everything had been a bust until then. Missouri either wouldn't or couldn't help him. Sam hated that look of sorrow in her eyes, and he never went back to Lawrence, Kansas after that. Scrying was useless.

Nothing worked until three months ago, the day that Sam showed up on Josephina Chacon's doorstep in Columbus, Ohio, of all places. Sam didn't ask what an Amerindian shamaness was doing living there, and quite frankly, he didn't give a damn. He'd heard about her ability to find lost people; that was more than enough.

Chacon taught Sam, gave him what he needed to have. She was suitably impressed by certain gifts Sam brought her, one of which happened to be the head of her nearest rival in the states. No great loss. That one specialized in sacrifices involving children. Sam figured he'd done everyone a favor with one swing of his machete.

Sam turned and gently pulled Dean's leather jacket down from the bed behind him. His fingers gently skimmed over the battered brown leather as he neatly folded it on his lap.

Then he picked up the wooden bowl, put it to his lips, and drank the ayahuasca down all at once.

Sam didn't gag. Not once.

He put the bowl down at his side, and waited.

It happened slowly. It always did. Nothing, at first, and then the room slid crazily around him like one of those tilt-a-wheel rides.

…_please…_Sam thought. _Please let this work…please…_ He heard himself whisper, rough and desperate, out loud, a plea he'd whispered before, when the days and nights got too lonely, too hard, when this whole damn business about Dean threatened to break and shatter him into pieces, once and for all.

Tears ran down both cheeks as Sam swayed from side to side. The pain came then, sharp and piercing. It jabbed him right between the eyes as the vine of spirits flowed into his third eye and opened it up painfully wide.

"Please," Sam whispered. Third time for this. Third time's the damn charm...

Everything around him smeared into a dirty grey blur. Sam felt a chill run down his bare arms. Each and every cut, every slash mark that he'd cut into his skin tingled, but not with expectation.

He was being watched. Observed.

Sam realized he wasn't alone in the room anymore.

"Dude. What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Sam blinked away the tears that gummed up his eyelashes. He struggled to stare at the figure who sat directly opposite him on the rug. His vocal cords felt tight, like he really hadn't used them in a while. "D-Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "It's me."

* * *

Nathan Beck leaned against the door jamb and carefully massaged that tender spot right between his eyes. Didn't help. Nothing did. Nothing would, unless he went home and popped a devil's sunrise or two himself, and tonight that just wasn't gonna happen. He had alredy decided to spend the night here. That fat prick Weddington blamed him for all of this. Damn. First Withers with his swan dive off the bell tower, then the general confusion that followed, and now this.

Doctor Miranda Clarke moved quietly around John Doe 317's bed. 317 lay still and quiet, so pale that spray of freckles across his nose showed up like grains of brown rice thrown carelessly over a stark white tablecloth. He didn't move a muscle, not even when she touched him as she checked the positioning of the cannula and the oxygen mask.

Beck didn't have anything on Clarke. She was one of the few people at Sweetbriar that Beck decided was a law abiding citizen, so he acted accordingly around her. She was one of Weddington's hires.

"So what happened?" Beck knew already, of course. Just wanted to hear it from her, see what she knew.

"Allergic reaction to his meds, I think." Clarke said, and Beck nodded. "Happens sometimes," she added softly.

"Well?" Beck grunted. "Is he going to make it or not?" He was already making plans, thinking ahead. It would have been a crying shame to lose John, but that was something Beck was prepared to live with, if necessary.

"He's stable now. You got him breathing again. That's always a damn good thing." A small frown creased her features as she looked down at 317. "Don't know how long he was without oxygen."

"So he could be brain damaged?"

"He might be. Won't know until he wakes up. _If _he wakes up," Clarke added pointedly.

* * *

"You kept all my stuff, huh?" Dean cocked his head to one side, and the corners of his lips twitched downward, just for a brief second. He looked exactly the way he looked that night in Hibbing, before the night swallowed him up whole, without a trace. Sam's skin tingled again as Dean glanced at the slash marks on Sam's arms. Dean's expression darkened into that disapproving scowl Sam knew so well.

Dean knew. Knew about the blood, knew that Sam had not only left the reservation, he probably nuked the place on his way out.

"Kept all…all of it," Sam croaked. "Your duffel, everything in the Impala…" He swallowed around that suddenly hard lump in his throat. "I'm been taking care of her. Regular tune ups, oil changes…"

"Cut the bullshit, Sam," Dean ordered. It was his command voice, the one voice that Sam always followed, the one he never ignored.

Sam blinked. Without even meaning to, he pulled out one of the oldest tricks in his book, the Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes, soft and pleading. It had been a long time since he'd used _that_ one. Four years, to be exact.

And it was clear that trick didn't work. Not anymore.

"So let me get this straight," Dean growled fiercely. "You're doing dark magic now. Because of me. Did I get that right? Is there anything _else_ you wanna tell me, bro'?" He glared at the cuts on Sam's arms.

"Missouri wouldn't help me. Bobby said…" Sam shook his head. He couldn't get the words out right. He wasn't expecting _this._ It was ridiculous. One quirked eyebrow from his long lost big brother and he was yammering like a three year old again.

"That's crap, and we both know it. You gotta let me go. You know that, don't you? It's been four years, Sam."

"I did séances. You're not dead. You're alive."

Dean snorted, rolled his eyes as he glanced away. "Wouldn't call _this_ living, dude."

"You have to tell me where you are."

Dean wore his defiance like a shield. "_Fuck no_."

"Dean ---"

"Why don't you go back to school?"

"W-what?"

"Go back to school. Go on with your life."

"I can't…I can't do that." Sam felt his breath stutter in his throat. The floor seemed to slide sideways, right out from underneath him. He was losing control, and_ that_ was a damn laugh.

"Why the hell not?" Dean shrugged. "So you don't wanna hunt with Dad. I get that. I do."

Sam's eyes narrowed. He lifted his head, stuck out his chin defiantly. "He left me, Dean. He ditched me. Four months after you…" Sam couldn't say it. "Haven't seen him in nearly four years."

"Dad always did know when to give up on lost causes," Dean said flatly.

Sam's head jerked up. "You selfish sonofabitch."

"Don't use _me_ as your excuse, you hear me? _Don't_. You had a choice, Sam. You always had a choice. I could see you looking for me, but there comes a time when you gotta cut your losses and move on. How the hell do you think I feel, seeing you like this?"

Sam smiled, thin and tight. His eyes glittered, full of barely contained sarcasm. "You are _so_ full of shit, you know that?"

"Gee, that stings," Dean snarked.

"If the tables had turned, and I was the one who got lost that night, would _you_ have given up on _me_, Dean? Would you?"

Something in Dean's eyes flickered. The look on his face changed, from stubbornly defiant to vulnerable, wounded, and then the damn mask slid back over Dean's features again.

_Gotcha_, Sam thought.

'That's…that's not the same." Dean seemed uneasy, and Sam decided to press him.

"It's not? Why not?"

"I'm the big brother. I take care of you, not the other way around. And here I thought you were the brains, Sammy."

"That argument didn't work the first time I ever heard it, and it's not working now."

"Doesn't matter what you think or say," Dean grumbled. He stared at his leather jacket on Sam's lap, at his duffel bag on Sam's bed behind his brother's head, and then quickly looked away. "You ditched me before. Why the hell can't you do it again?"

"Dean…you gotta tell me where you are."

"The hell I do." Dean shook his head. "You called me. I came. I don't know _why_, but I did. But you can't force me to tell you, can you?"

Sam's shoulders slumped. "No."

"Four years, Sam. I've been gone for four friggin' years. I'm not the same person I was before." Dean's voice softened, and so did his expression. "If I could've come back, I would have done it before now. I'm gone for good. You gotta deal with it."

Sam shook his head _no_.

Dean shook his head. "You stupid jackass."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever, dude."

Dean's image wavered slightly, and Sam tried not to stare. He could hear Chacon's richly accent inside his head: "There will be times when the missing one will be at odds with themselves. You must watch and observe, Samuel. Sometimes, if you are fortunate, you will receive a sign."

Sam kept his game face on, carefully blank. He took in all the details, from the way Dean's eyes darkened slightly, from that familiar moss green to a color more like forest green. Dean's hair grew longer and lighter. He was barefoot, and he wore white hospital scrubs.

_He's a patient,_ Sam thought to himself as he took it all in. _Not staff._

Dean became transparent. Slowly, gradually. Sam expected it, but that wasn't the reason why that chill crawled up his spine. It was the look Dean gave him.

It was cold and steady, with absolutely no hint of recognition in those eyes. None at all. Sam was being measured. He knew it, even as Dean slowly faded completely away.

Sam leaned heavily against the side of his bed. He felt wiped out, and would probably sleep on the floor. He felt too tired to even climb up into the bed. He sat there staring at the space where Dean had been. He'd feel better in the morning, after the remaining drugs had run themselves out of his system, but he sat there and processed what he'd seen, slowly methodically.

Dean was in a hospital somewhere, which meant that he was probably sedated. That was some of it, but not all. The most worrisome part was what came at the very end.

Dean Winchester had never looked at his younger brother like that. It took Sam a moment or so to properly name the emotion he saw.

It was hate.

* * *

A day later Ben Murray's stolen body pulled up onto the driveway at 9063 Fairhaven Road. Meg walked him up to the house, knocked on the door. She got basically the same reception she'd gotten at the other two houses she'd paid a visit to.

Funny thing, Daddy's friends weren't too happy to see her. Meg had to laugh about that.

Half an hour later ol' Bennie boy was looking even more tattered around the edges. He'd lost a couple of fingers, and his right ear. Deep inside his body Ben Murray's soul huddled in a dark corner and moaned to itself.

Sure enough, the neighbors called the cops because of all the noise, but by that time Meg had all the information she needed. She was long gone by the time the SWAT team finally broke down the door and tossed those flash grenades inside. She jumped from one first responder to another, and finally settled on a uniformed female cop with a squad car. She needed wheels, and that would do until she felt the urge to trade up again.

She really didn't give a damn about Azazel's grand plan. Daddy hadn't done her any favors after all, now had he?

Things were looking up. Meg resisted the urge to blast the siren as she sped away from the scene. She still felt pretty damn cheerful about the way things were going.

She knew which direction Sam Winchester was rumored to be headed in, and when she caught up with Sammy, it was gonna be just like old times.

* * *

Next post Saturday.


	10. Synchronicity

_**A/N:**_ According to Wikipedia _Synchronicity _is the experience of two or more events that are causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner.

_**A/N #2:**_ I also used some dialogue from "In My Time of Dying" that I'm sure you'll recognize. I couldn't think of anything else, and it was so appropriate.

_**Also from Wikipedia:**_ Waxy flexibility is a psychomotor symptom of catatonic schizophrenia which leads to a decreased response to stimuli and a tendency to remain in an immobile posture.

* * *

_**Chapter 10 - Synchronicity**_

The dream went on, just as it always did. The first couple of times he dreamed it John couldn't understand the why of it, until one day it hit him: dreaming about Dean always took the form of the riddle of the Sphinx: What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?

John hated puzzles and riddles. Mary loved them.

The morning sunlight made Mary's skin and hair glow with warmth and so much damn life John felt his throat tighten up in response. On his way home from the hospital, wrapped up in a blue blanket on Mary's lap, Dean looked goggle eyed as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on and how he got out of his mother in the first place.

Dean crawled, and he walked. He played with colored blocks, crayons and coloring books, Hot Wheels cars. He played T ball, and nothing could compare with that wide, excited smile on his face when he found out he was going to be a big brother, the best big brother in the whole world.

He ran with Sam in his arms the night Mary died, just as John told him to.

At four Dean was mute, fiercely protective of Sammy. Then he was five, then six. Nine after that, and then thirteen, a teenager at noon. That shy little boy became tall and lean. He handled weapons, laid down salt lines, and he always looked out after Sam, never mind that business in Fort Douglas. Dean bled for John and he bled for Sam. He was cocky and loud and he was so good at hunting he scared the hell out of John a lot of the time.

John sighed in his sleep as he turned over. Night came, and as always John found himself sitting on that park bench. His face was wet and his chest and throat felt sore and cramped. This was the worst part. This was the part he always hated.

Dean never showed before. Not on two legs or three. It was a terrifying blank spot all these years, and each and every time John would sit there on the bench, not daring to move, until he woke up in his bed, usually in some motel room somewhere.

"God works in mysterious ways," Missouri said. John figured that if he ever laid eyes on that sonofabitch, he'd ask him _why_. Why He let Mary get taken.

And why He let Dean get taken too.

John turned his face up to the moon, bone bright and white overhead. It was warm here, always was, where ever _here_ was. Late spring, summertime maybe. John realized that he was unarmed, had been all the times he'd ever sat on that bench. No knife in his boot, no gun in his waistband, not even that flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. The only thing he had with him was that ache in his chest.

Someone stood a few feet away, underneath the overhang of that large oak tree there.

John froze. "Dean?"

The branches overhead moved gently in the breeze, shifting light and dark over spiky dark blond hair, faded jeans, brown leather and wide green eyes.

"It's okay, Dad," Dean whispered softly. "It's okay."

"You always say that," John said softly. "You shouldn't have had to say that to me. I should have been saying that to you."

John didn't miss the look of uncertainty flickered across Dean's fine features.

"You know, I put too much on your shoulders. I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you."

Dean stepped backwards, into the shadows. John couldn't see his face anymore, and that sent a jolt of panic rocketing up his spine.

"Dean? No…" It was John's command voice at first, but then the tone became softer, filled with pleading. "Don't go. Please…"

"I have to," Dean whispered.

John lunged forwards, and something hard and round bumped into his chest. He leaned back, blinked stupidly at his surroundings for a long moment.

He was in his truck.

The rest stop was deserted at this time of morning. Bobby Singer's place was still three days away. He'd have to be there when Sam arrived, and that was something that made John's stomach twist up in knots, because that was the time when things were probably going to get pretty loud and pretty fucked up.

He sat back against the seat as he remembered Missouri Moseley's soft, calm voice: "I can't guarantee a happy ending, but all I do know is that you and Sam _have_ to come together as a family for this."

That was the problem right there. Leaving Sam like that, four months into the search for Dean, well, that was like throwing gasoline onto a brush fire. It was easy to fall back into old patterns, the yelling and the accusations. The only difference this time was Dean wasn't there. He wasn't the buffer anymore, and that was the whole damn point.

John sat up straighter, blinked the sleep from his eyes.

The cell in his pocket felt like a stone weight, heavy and useless. He could call Sam. Try to beg, try to plead with his youngest son to listen to what he'd found out from Missouri about Dean, about the other family. Sam wouldn't listen. He'd made it pretty clear from the last time that he wouldn't be taking any more calls.

John doubted he'd even answer the call.

"_There will come a time, very very soon when the others find out where Dean is, and they'll come for him. Then Dean will be lost to you and Sam forever."_

John growled a little as he turned the key in the ignition, and the truck rumbled to life.

To hell with that.

* * *

_Dean hates me,_ Sam thought as he drifted upwards from sleep that same morning. _He hates me because I didn't get to him in time. I didn't have his back that night._

That was the _only_ explanation for the way Dean looked at him the night before.

At least, Sam thought it was.

John blamed Sam for losing Dean. Sam could tell by the way Dad looked at him. The old man didn't have to say a thing.

"How the hell could you lose your brother?"

It was ridiculous. All this time it was "Look after your brother, Dean," "Take care of Sam, Dean," and one fine night _Sam_ loses _Dean_.

Just like that.

Sam's mind went places he didn't want it to go sometimes. Sometimes he raged at himself, and sometimes he blamed Dean. _How the hell could you have been so damned stupid? You let them get the drop on you? You let them take you?_

"They" were shadows in Sam's dreams before, black-eyed and laughing, and the fact that they were only human now, just _people_, somehow made things even worse.

Instead of black smoke swirling around Dean, pouring down his throat, filling him up from the inside out, Sam dreamed that he saw his brother being dragged into this hospital, handcuffed, bruised and bewildered. Dean was defiant, and he cursed them all, struck out with his feet, fought as best he could, until they hit him with that needle, and the drugs surged into his blood and his brain and his body.

Dean's eyes grew dull and dazed. He was put into restraints, drugged and shocked, over and over again, until Dean took his meds willingly. He was a good little patient, no longer a problem, and he didn't struggle as some of the orderlies touched him in the shower, didn't fight as they pushed him face first into the wall or the mattress and fucked him. He was just a nutcase anyway, some John Doe brought in from God only knew where. His own family couldn't keep track of him. Who really gave a damn about him, anyway?

They forced drugs into Dean each and every damn day for four years. Four long years, but there was a part of Dean, buried deep down inside, that still knew who he _really _was, a part of him that knew _exactly _who to blame.

_You sonofabitch. You ditched me, Sam. You left me. _

Sam sat up in bed. He moved slowly, carefully. His head felt a little woozy, the way it always did the morning after he used the ayahuasca. His muscles shook as he threw the covers off, and he stumbled a little as he put his feet on the floor and stood up. All of that he could ignore, because none of it mattered.

It would take him the rest of the day to recover, but he knew more now than he had before, and the way he was feeling wouldn't stop him from making phone calls and doing research. Sam didn't know how he and Hudak had missed the hospital connection the first time. That didn't matter anymore. He was three days out from Bobby's place. Bobby would be pissed if Sam didn't include him in on this, but for now he had to do some digging around so he could tell Bobby what else he'd found out.

Dean didn't deserve any of this. Sam was right about _that_, at least.

Sam thought Dean had every right to hate him.

Sam didn't realize until it was too late how wrong he really was about _that_.

* * *

John Doe 317 opened his eyes at 10:41am that same morning.

He didn't talk. Had to stay quiet, because Abraham was out there with the shotgun, didn't say a word because Momma was quiet, and she looked so sad lying there on the ceiling. He could smell smoke. He was scared, and maybe this was all his fault.

He waited for Daddy to tell him what to do.

Maybe if he stayed quiet things would change, and Momma would come down from the ceiling, and she wouldn't be so bloody, and Missy would smile and tell him that she loved him, that angels were watching over him. Maybe Abraham would say he was sorry, like he did before, that night he came back, when he breathed again and was warm again, even though he was broken up a little. Abraham held his hand, said that it was all a mistake and he was so damn sorry for all the blood…

* * *

"Pupils are responsive to light." Dr. Michaelson said as he straightened up and clicked his penlight off. "He's in there. He just doesn't want to talk to anyone."

Orderly Lena McCandless fidgeted a little as she stood by the door. She'd been assigned to stay just in case there was trouble. It was the first time she was in the same room with Beck's pet freak.

The man sitting on the examination table sat there rigidly. He stared into space blankly, unaware that there was anyone else present.

Dr. Weddington lightly put one hand on one of 317's broad shoulders. "John?"

No answer.

Weddington took 317's right arm by the wrist and very carefully lifted his arm up. Weddington let go.

John Doe 317 didn't even blink. His arm remained in mid-air until Weddington gently pushed it back down to his side. 317 showed no reaction to the motion, did not react to being touched.

Weddington frowned. "Waxy flexibility."

Dr. Michaelson shook his head. "This doesn't fit. 317 was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, not catatonic schizophrenia. Dean's his alter."

Weddington stared at the patient. "He's unresponsive to outside stimuli. Didn't react to the pinpricks. Showed very little response when we tested his reflexes." Weddington removed his glasses and gingerly massaged the spot between his eyes.

"Well?"

"Start him on 2 mg of intramuscular lorazepam. We'll keep him here under observation for the next hour or so." Weddington nodded at McCandless. "You'll stay here as long as we need you."

McCandless nodded.

This couldn't have gone any better if she'd planned it herself.

After Michaelson gave 317 the injection of lorazepam she helped him down off the table, sat him up in bed with his back against the pillows. Weddington and Michaelson left to go down the hall to Michaelson's office. They'd be back in half an hour.

Plenty of time.

McCandless closed the door.

_So pretty,_ she thought to herself. John Doe 317 just stared at her as she ran her fingers through his shoulder length hair. It wasn't damn fair anyway. His skin was better than hers, so smooth and clear. And freckled. It was a damn shame. The lights were on and it was clear nobody was home.

Well, what was the harm of a little grope here and there. Who's gonna tell? McCandless took her cell phone out and snapped off a few quick shots. 317 didn't even react.

She slipped her cell phone back into her pants pocket, bent down and brushed her lips against his. They were a little chapped, but they were firm and soft. She pushed her tongue between his lips and was pleased when he parted his lips and let her in. She kept her eyes open, just to make sure that he wasn't about to go all Hannibal Lector on her.

He didn't. 317 blinked. That was all.

She pulled the blanket down, and undid the drawstring of his pants. She slid her hands in. He was well hung down there. Nice package. She stroked his cock, slowly, gently. He was already half hard, despite the drugs.

"I'll make it good for you, baby," McCandless whispered.

"What the hell is going on here?"

_Shit. Shit!_ McCandless jerked away. She hadn't heard the door open, but it was open now.

Weddington and Beck stood in the doorway. Beck looked like the fucking cat that swallowed the fucking canary. Weddington looked shocked and angry.

"Screwed" didn't even begin to cover this.

* * *

Later on that same day Jimmy Novak sat cross legged on his bed and watched the sunlight paint the sky and his window golden.

_Jimmy…do you miss your wife and daughter?_

_Yes. I do. I miss Amelia and Claire. _

_I want to make sure you understand, _Castiel said slowly._ You do know that you will probably never see your family again?_

_I know._ Jimmy nodded. _I've understood that from the beginning._

_We appreciate your devotion, and your service. _

_It's my calling. I was chosen. Ames…she never did understand. _

And Claire?

_She deserves a normal life. Jimmy smiled. Everything is as it should be. It's God's will._

_

* * *

_Two days later Abraham Bender rose early, the way he always did. There were chores to do around the place. Last night was good, and tonight was going to be even better. They'd picked up this bitch on the highway. Her car had broken down. Easy pickings. Kinda reminded Pa of the good old days. She was tall and fit and looked like she was going to be a good one to hunt. Not much fat on her, from what Pa could see, so he was pretty sure they could make good use of her meat, too.

Lee and Jerry usually fucked the women, and some of the men too, but this bitch was just about as tall and wide as Jerry, and neither boy seemed willing to get their asses kicked just so they could put their dicks in her.

Pa walked past Missy's room and stopped as he looked inside. Missy always did sleep all wild and sprawled out like that, especially when she was younger. Now, since Gabriel left, she slept curled up in a tight little ball. She looked too pale, too young like that, and Abraham really hated to see that. She slept alone now, and he hated to see that, too.

A man had needs, and so did a woman. Abraham knew that. The only thing that bothered him was when his children didn't get along. If Missy didn't want to fuck Lee and Jerry any more, well then, they'd have to accept that, and find other ways to handle themselves.

He managed to soften his footsteps as he walked into her room. She didn't stir, not even as he pulled the covers over her. Pa indulged Missy, maybe a little too much, but she was his baby girl, after all. He couldn't refuse her anything she ever asked for. Missy stirred a little as he covered her up to her chin. Pa figured he was lucky she wasn't playing possum and wake up and slash at him with her knife.

About ten minutes later Pa sat in the kitchen going through the bitch's purse and her suitcase. There wasn't much. A watch, maybe a couple pairs of earrings, nothing pretty or shiny enough that he could give to Missy.

Last night Missy just stared at the woman as Lee and Jerry dragged her unconscious carcass into the barn.

"She looks like a man," Missy muttered, and she turned and went back into the house. Pa doubted his girl would be asking for anything from this one.

He didn't think much of what was in her purse, either. A couple of credit cards and a debit card. Hmph. Plastic. That was useless. There was also a couple hundred dollars, twenties, tens and ones.

That was better.

The driver's license was issued in the state of Pennsylvania. The name on the license was Lena McCandless.

Abraham very nearly didn't look at her cell phone. He knew what one was, sure. Folks figured just because he and his kin lived the simple life that they didn't know what a damn cell phone was. Later on he'd say it was fate that made him flip the phone open. It was all meant to be, all of this was, but before Pa realized that he was getting bored. The pictures on the damn thing were nothing special. The bitch and some fella she was probably screwing, all huddled up together on a couch somewhere. Pictures of some damn dogs. Pa hit the button one more time. He saw wide green eyes, and shoulder length sandy blond hair.

Abraham Bender froze.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment, and when he finally remembered to take a breath the first thing he did was yell out "Gabriel", over and over again.

* * *

"Hey, Bobby," Sam murmured softly. Bobby looked the same as he always did: trucker's cap, blue flannel shirt, grizzly and grey and soliday and so damned dependable and steady.

"Sam," Bobby said gruffly. Sam looked past Bobby and froze.

Dad.

John Winchester stood there in the middle of the living room.

Sam's eyes narrowed. His right hand balled up into a fist.

Bobby didn't miss that; John didn't either. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "He came here to see you. We got some things to discuss, Sam."

That was exactly what Sam did _not _want to hear. He stepped back on the porch, towards the steps. "I don't have anything to say to him, Bobby," Sam snarled.

"Sam, wait a minute," John rumbled as he walked forward. "We have to talk about Dean."

"I don't---"

"Aw, you're gonna ruin my big surprise," a female voice chirped from behind, out in the yard.

Sam froze.

"Howdy, Sammy."

"What the hell?" Bobby whispered.

Sam turned. The woman standing next to the Impala was young, Hispanic, dressed in a denim jacket and faded jeans. Her eyes shone pitch black, and the smile she gave Sam was bright and merciless.

"Meg," Sam whispered.

She actually giggled. "Got some news to share with you about your big brother." She rolled her eyes at John, pouted as she twirled one end of her long dark hair around one finger. "And I wanna be the first one to tell you all about it."

* * *

Next post Friday


	11. no good deed goes unpunished

_**A/N:**_ I want to thank everyone for all the reviews, and the PMs in support of this story. It's much appreciated! Chapter title taken from the song _No Good Deed Goes Unpunished_, from the Broadway play _Wicked_. Sam's conjuring chant is taken from the _Lorem Ipsum_. I modified it slightly to fit.

As always, all the prior warnings about this story still apply. I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

_**

* * *

Chapter 11 - no good deed goes unpunished**_

"Lee," Gabriel moaned. "Please…" the sound was rough and soft, hungry and pleading all at the same time.

"Gonna fuck you, boy," Lee whispered in Gabe's ear. "Gonna fuck you good…"

Gabriel looked up at him from underneath those long eyelashes, blinked those big dark green eyes, and the boy was just so pretty, Lee couldn't help it. He leaned in and pressed his lips hard against that mouth.

Lee pulled up Gabriel's white tee shirt up and over his head. Gabriel didn't move, not even when Lee pulled his belt out of his belt loops, turned him around and tied the younger man's hands behind his back.

Gabe tilted his head back as Lee turned him around again. Lee ran his tongue over that lightly freckled chest, licked his way up from Gabriel's left nipple to the long lean line of his throat. He kissed Gabriel on the mouth as he unzipped the boy's fly and pushed his hand in. Gabe tasted clean, and even on a bad day he looked and smelled a hell of a lot better than Missy ever did.

The dream fell apart then. All Lee could hear was Pa yelling something over and over again. The old man sounded excited, and Lee wondered if the jig was finally up, if those clueless damn Hibbert cops had finally put two and two together about all those folks that went missing all those years and decided to pay the family a visit.

Lee blinked once, then twice. Gabriel disappeared and aw _hell_, Lee remembered where he _was_, and who he was _really_ in bed with.

"What the hell?" Jerry grumbled. He was uglier than Missy and Gabriel up close. Smelled worse than the two of them put together, too. "What the hell's Pa saying?"

"Gabriel," Lee mumbled, wide eyed. "He's saying 'Gabriel.'"

Lee gulped as his stomach flip flopped, slow and queasy. He already had the feeling that today just wasn't gonna be his day.

* * *

_The Lord works in mysterious ways, John._

John put his hand on the butt of his gun, underneath his jacket. It was an automatic gesture, one born of all the years on the hunt.

"Now, Papa," Meg purred. "You don't wanna really do_ that_, do ya?"

"John!" Bobby hissed.

John pulled his hand away.

Meg sighed. "I mean, you _could_ shoot her. Makes no damn difference to me." Meg grinned a little. "She won't be much good after I leave her anyway."

"What the hell do you want, bitch?" Sam snarled.

"Now, Sammy." Meg's look of shock was almost convincing. "Is that any way to treat a fellow hitchhiker? We almost became fuck buddies on the road. We still could." She eyed Sam up and down and slowly ran her wet tongue over her bottom lip.

"Uh, why don't you come inside and we can sit and talk for a while?" Bobby said politely. He didn't mind appearing old stupid and clueless, not if he could lure Meg inside underneath that Devil's Trap on the ceiling.

Meg glared at Bobby. "Do I have STUPID tattooed across my forehead, old man? No thanks. I'm fine right here. Anyway," she hugged herself with both arms, "you're hurting my feelings with all this displaced anger. I come here with news about Dean, poor long lost Dean," she coyly fluttered her eyelashes at the three men on the porch, "and _this_ is how you treat me?"

"You don't know _anything_ about Dean," Sam said flatly.

"Hell I don't, big boy. He's not living the high life now, lemme tell ya."

"_I did séances. You're not dead. You're alive."_

_Dean snorted, rolled his eyes as he glanced away. "Wouldn't call __this__ living, dude."_

Somehow, someway, Sam managed to keep his game face on, even though he could feel it slipping.

"Dean's in a mental hospital," Meg cooed.

_Please,_ Sam thought to himself. _Oh God…_

"Sweetbriar State Hospital. He's a ward of the great state of Minnesota. He's got a padded cell, a warm and comfy straightjacket, two meals a day, and all the antipsychotic drugs he can handle."

"I don't believe you, bitch," John sounded bored. He felt frozen deep inside.

"Is that a fact? You can't fool _me_, Johnny boy. Didn't you think that Dean was gonna end up in the nuthouse sooner or later, especially after dealing with you two idiots all his life? Let's see now, there's you, Sam, the younger brother. You think Dean's nothing but an ignorant jerk. You told me that yourself. You have a habit of ditching big bro every chance you get."

"_Go back to school," Dean whispered in Sam's memory. "Go on with your life."_

"And there's _you_, Papa. You drop him like a bad habit all the time. Everybody who loves him, leaves him. Isn't that the way it goes? Nothing Dean does is _ever_ good enough for you, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Oh. Wait." Meg smirked. "He stopped trying. My bad."

"Why the hell should we believe anything you'd have to say about Dean anyway?"

"Why? Well. I don't have anything to gain from telling you, Sammy boy. All I want is to see poor damaged Dean returned to the bosom of his loving family." Meg clasped both hands over her chest.

"What's that twanging sound in the air?" She cocked her head to one side. "It's the sound of the Winchesters falling apart. I can feel your pain, boys. You're vibrating with it. Hmmm," she inhaled deeply and smiled. "I love the smell of Winchester angst in the morning. Sweet."

John leaned forward, put both hands on the porch railing. "Demons lie, princess. How fucking stupid do you think we are?"

"Oooh, oooh, I know the answer to that one!" Meg waved one hand in the air like she was in grade school. She lowered her hand and quirked an eyebrow at John. "Short answer? _Very stupid._ We all have our Daddy issues. Speaking of Daddy, do you really think Azazel would want me to tell you where Dean is?"

"We're going to find Dean on our own," John drawled. "And when we do, sweetheart, you're gonna be the first one we hunt down. Count on it."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Papa. Dean's a lost cause. He's really _really_ fucked up. After all this time, with all the drugs they've pumped into him?" Meg smiled brightly. "And you know what? It gets better. Nathan Beck's one of the head honchos there. Beck's been fucking Dean. Every chance he gets. Imagine that." Her bright black eyes swept over John and Sam's face, eagerly searching for some kind of reaction to that.

There wasn't any, but that didn't bother Meg. "Hmph. Tough crowd. Anyway, I just knew you wanted to know all this. Macho ladies man Dean Winchester, and Beck's made him his little bitch. Guess Dean's gotten in touch with his inner girl, huh? I've heard that he's developed a real taste for those red pills Beck has, and all Deano's gotta do to get some is lay down and spread. Can't you hear him moaning, Papa? Begging Beck to take him over and over again?"

John's hands on the porch railing tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"Yahtzee." Meg smiled. "Well, kids, it's been fun, but I gotta run. Places to go, people to see."

"Next time I see you, Meg," Sam said calmly. "I'm going to kill you."

"Promises, promises, kiddo," Meg winked at him. "Now, do I have to write any of this down for you dummies? Sweetbriar State Hospital. Your boy's known as John Doe 317. He's in Ward A. They don't call it the pit for nothing. If you wanted to leave him there, I really wouldn't blame you, what with the price of healthcare these days."

Sam moved.

The silver flask appeared in his right hand like a magic trick. He flung out his arm in Meg's direction. Water splashed against her face and upper body, rose up in a thick fog of steam and sulfur stench. The woman's mouth opened wide and Meg boiled out and upwards into the bright morning sky, just as the woman's knees buckled and she slid bonelessly against the side of the Impala.

Sam got to her first. He checked her vitals as he sat her up against the side of the car. When he turned to face Bobby and John Sam shook his head _no_. "She's been dead for a while."

"Son of a bitch," John muttered.

* * *

Missy smiled. "This is gonna hurt."

Lena McCandless sat tied up in that big wooden chair in the living room. The big woman cried and yelled out as Missy worked. She knew just where to slip the blade in under the skin, knew all the places where it would hurt like hell and bleed just a little. After fifteen minutes or so, Pa stepped forward and put his hand on Missy's shoulder.

It was enough. Pa liked what she'd done, all the blood, the slash marks on the woman's face and cheek. Missy briefly thought about carving away some more muscle, but instead she nodded and stepped back. She grinned at Lee and Jerry, showed all her teeth to them, wide and feral. She hadn't smiled like that in at least six months. She felt like singing.

Gabriel was coming back to her. He was alive and he was coming home to her, just like God promised that he would.

Pa glared at the woman as he took her cell phone, flipped it open. He held the phone up to her nose. "Listen here, bitch."

"Oh G-God, p-please, pl-please d-don't-t…" That must have pissed Pa off, because his mouth twitched into a thin hard line and he backhanded her so hard her head snapped back and forth.

She started blubbering and he whacked her again. He held the phone up again where she could see it. She sniffed noisily and stared at the picture on the small screen.

"This boy. He's my kin. My brother." Abraham nodded at Missy. "He's her man. Disappeared about six months ago. Where is he?"

"S-Sweet…Sweetbriar…" She barely got the words out before he backhanded her again.

"Sweetbriar State Hospital!"

Pa nodded quietly. "The crazy place?"

"They…they b-brought him in about six months ago. He's -- he's Beck's pet."

Pa snapped the phone shut. His eyes glittered, and that slight smile on his face made McCandless uneasy, but at least he wasn't hitting her anymore. "You're gonna tell us all about this place, how we can get in and get him _out_. You do _that_, and we'll let you go."

McCandless nodded. Blood and snot ran down her nose, dripped down her chin.

Missy giggled. She knew Pa was lying, of course. But the big woman didn't know.

* * *

"Fucking boy came back," Lee snarled later. They were in the woods back behind the house, burying the woman's suitcase and purse. Lee hit the ground with the shovel.

"He's like a bad penny." Jerry shrugged as he threw the purse into the hole and then shoveled dirt on top of it.

It was okay to talk. Pa was back at the house, talking to that woman. Missy was skipping around the house, and damned if she hadn't taken a bath and prettied herself up, with lotion and powder. She even combed her hair out, just like before.

Lee shook his head. His leg hurt just as bad as it did the day that Gabriel freak broke it. "Gonna have to think about losing him again. This time for good." He scowled at Jerry. "You know that, don't ya?"

"Well…maybe not." Jerry looked thoughtful, and that was a scary sight on that broad, dirty face.

"What?"

"You heard what that bitch said. They've been druggin' him for the past six months. Probably gave him that shock treatment too. Betcha anything ol' Gabe's not right in the head anymore."

"What are you sayin', Jerry?"

"I'm sayin' maybe we better leave well enough alone. Pa's happy. Missy is too."

"Gabriel's gonna remember," Lee said loudly, and Jerry looked around nervously and shushed him. "He's gonna remember that we ditched him that night," Lee hissed as he lowered his voice. "He's gonna tell Missy and Pa. What'll we do _then_, smart guy?"

"Maybe he will. Maybe not." Jerry eyed his brother warily. "You don't know that for sure."

"You're not with me on this?" Lee tossed the suitcase in next. He kicked the clothes that fell out into the hole too.

"I'm just sayin'. Just have to wait and see."

"Fuck that," Lee said roughly. He took up a shovelful of dirt and threw it into the hole. "You're either with me or against me."

Jerry laughed. "Now _you're _talkin' crazy."

* * *

"Ah ethrem dolor..."

_Hear me now..._

Sam tossed his blood and the chant into the wind.

"Porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit..."

_There is one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain..._

Sam ignored the heavy ache between his eyes. The cuts on his arms seemed to stop bleeding almost immediately. Sam really couldn't remember whether that was something his body had always done. He carefully slid his jacket back on, leaned back against the Impala's bumper and waited.

_You're doing dark magic now. Because of me. Did I get that right? Is there anything else you wanna tell me, bro'?_

_No, Dean,_ Sam thought to himself. _Didn't tell Bobby and Dad either._

They hadn't been too happy when he drove off. It was a lead pipe cinch that they wouldn't have understood, either, if he'd told them what he was going to do.

What he _had_ to do.

He'd thought about it, of course, since the time he'd seen Dean the night he took the ayahuasca.

"_Four years, Sam. I've been gone four frigging years. I'm not the person I was before. If I could've come back, I would have done it before now. I'm gone for good. You gotta deal with it."_

_I am dealing with it._

"_He's got a padded cell, a warm and comfy straightjacket, two meals a day, and all the antipsychotic drugs he can handle."_

The wind picked up, lifted the edges of Dean's photo in Sam's right hand. It was the only photo of Dean he had left, and he hadn't thought about making a copy of it before now.

"_Dean's a lost cause. He's really really fucked up. After all this time, with all the drugs they've pumped into him?" _

The sigil on the photo was dark red. The design was surprisingly precise considering that Sam had drawn it with his fingertip and his own blood. The center of the sigil was placed directly over Dean's face.

The wind picked up again. Sam smelled lavender, but he wasn't fooled.

It was a lie that dark things only stayed out of direct sunlight.

"Hell of a day, isn't it?" this deep voice rumbled.

Sam nodded. He wouldn't look directly at the creature. He wouldn't be able to see it if he did.

Something crouched down in the tall grass over on the right, just inside the corner of his eye. The arms and legs were too long and the joints were bent in the wrong direction. The skin rippled, turned from pearl grey to dull black and back again.

It didn't have any eyelids. Sam was sure of that. Its eyes covered nearly half its face. They were bright silver, speckled with black dots. Something long, greyish brown and vinelike sprouted from its head, down that thick long neck. The tendrils moved in the opposite direction of the wind, and Sam could swear that there were tiny black mouths at the ends that opened and closed.

Sam stared down at Dean's photo, looked at the bright relaxed smile on his brother's face. _Dude, I hope you can forgive me. Please. I'll take your pain and make it mine. I can do that much for you, at least._

"My name is Sam Winchester."

The thing nodded. "You may call me Lim, Sam Winchester. Is that your brother?"

"Yes."

"Such a pretty, broken child. What do you require?"

"I need…a favor from you."

"Now?"

Sam shook his head. "When I find my brother."

"Ah. My favors are all twisted." It shook its head, and the hair on its head flew wildly in all directions. "Do you know the price?"

"_I've heard that Dean's developed a real taste for those red pills Beck has, and all Deano's gotta do to get some is lay down and spread."_

Sam nodded.

"Pain," Sam heard himself murmur. "I give it gladly, now and later."

The lower half of the thing's face actually split open in a smile, deep and cavernous. "So be it."

Sam promised himself that he wouldn't scream when Lim touched him.

He kept that promise.

* * *

There was a definite advantage to not having any neighbors for miles around. That back lot directly behind Bobby's place was fenced in, isolated, but it wouldn't do to have some passerby or a regular customer drop by just as he and John salted and burned Meg's vessel. He hadn't had this kind of thing in mind when he bought the place, but he had to admit being off the beaten path like that worked a little too well. She lay covered up in the back shed for now.

Bobby said a silent prayer for the woman, then glanced at John as he closed the door and padlocked it. "We can take care of her later on tonight."

"Don't know what's gotten into that boy," John growled. Bobby glanced down at John's right hand. It was curled up into a fist. Typical.

"Sam hasn't been right since Dean vanished, you damn fool." Bobby shook his head. "If you'd hung around him long enough you would have realized that."

"Don't start with me, Singer." John's eyes flashed with a dangerous, dark glint.

"Don't start? Well, why the hell _not_, John?" Bobby's voice dripped sarcasm as they turned and walked back to the house. "_Your_ feelings don't matter. Your boys are hurting, John Winchester. _Both_ of them are. You don't have the damn right to feel sorry for yourself."

Bobby cocked his head to one side as he heard a familar rumble. John grunted.

The Impala sat in the driveway. Sam straightened up and as he did he flinched a little, as though he was favoring his left side. He looked paler than he had before, but he seemed fine otherwise.

Bobby stared hard at Sam's face. _What the hell are you up to, Sam?_ A sideways glance at John didn't reveal a thing. Stubborn bastard had his game face on, tight and steady as usual.

"We got work to do, princess," Bobby drawled.

Sam nodded. He looked at Bobby first, and then John. "We're bringing Dean home."

* * *

Next post Monday


	12. burning daylight

_**A/N:**_ Thanks for the recc's and the reviews! Over 200...dang! Much thanks to my regulars and the new folks, and thanks to the lurkers.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only (and aren't we a sick bunch!) and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 12 – burning daylight **_

"Thought I'd lost you there, John," Dad whispered. His tongue and his mouth tasted like beer and his hands roamed all over. 317's top was pulled off, and his pants were pulled down over his waistband.

He always did whatever Dad wanted him to do. Always. He couldn't ever remember Dad acting like this, but he didn't want Dad to stop. Didn't want him to go away.

People left him. Even if he didn't remember his own name, he remembered that much.

"Good son," 317 whispered out loud as Dad spun him around and pushed him face first into the padded wall. "I'm the good son…"

Hot breath scorched the back of his neck. "All mine," Dad whispered. He sunk his teeth into the space where neck and shoulder met, and 317 arched his back. Broad warm hands moved from his cock all the way up to his chest and back down again. It was like his body knew the touch. His body remembered, responded to the way Dad touched him, even when his mind didn't. That heavy weight at his back pushed aside all conscious thought.

It was too much trouble to think, so 317 stopped trying.

* * *

Lena McCandless sat at the kitchen table. She pressed both hands down on that slick red and white checkered plastic tablecloth as she stared at her hands. They were just as beat up as the rest of her was. Her face was a collection of bruises and slash marks, dark red and purpling, on both sides of her neck, all the way up into her hairline. She didn't look anyone in the eye, didn't want them to think that she was memorizing the way they looked for the cops later. When they marched her in here she got a look at this wind chime that was hanging from a nail in the ceiling by the kitchen door, and she closed her eyes when she realized the wind chime was made of what looked like human jawbone. Some of the cutting utensils that hung from the overhead racks were streaked with specks of what looked like blood.

The kitchen smelled like blood and rotten meat.

The two younger men were in the room too. Judging from the looks of things (and the smell) didn't seem like they ever changed their clothes. They had on the same truckers' caps and grimy flannel shirts, brown pants and work boots they had on the night before, when they stomped the hell out of her by the side of the road and dumped her inside that truck of theirs.

The shorter one leaned against the doorway with his shotgun down at her side. The taller one stood directly in front of the kitchen door with this long handled ax in his right hand. He looked like he knew how to handle himself; so did the other one and that grizzled old man.

McCandless knew if she tried something she'd never get out of the damn house alive. She was nearly as tall as the three men, almost as broad, but _nearly_ and_ almost_ didn't count for a damn thing now. She'd been cut and stabbed and beaten and that took all the fight out of her. It was one thing to manhandle a patient. That was something she enjoyed most of the time, but she was out of her league here, and she knew it. Best to just give them what they wanted and hope they let her go.

There was another person there, this young girl in the yellow dress, and at first Lena didn't recognize this one. Her long brown hair was combed out, and she looked clean, not like that psycho bitch with the knife, the one who kept cutting on her until the old man told her to stop. That one's clothes were filthy. She smelled dirty, her face was smudged with dirt and grime and her hair was all tangled around her face. McCandless blinked as she looked Yellow Dress up and down, and the girl grinned at her, wide and toothy.

_Hell. It was the bitch with the knife. _

"All right," the old man said firmly. "This is the way this thing is gonna go. Do you wanna live?"

Lena nodded without raising her eyes to look at him.

The side of her face stung like fire. She blinked and her head moved up and down like one of those bobblehead dogs people put in the back window of their cars. The old man had reached out and popped her upside the head, just that quick.

Yellow Dress giggled a little.

"Pay attention now," the old man growled, and she forced herself to look at him. Those hazel eyes were cold and unblinking. This thing with the eyes must run in the whole damn family, because staring at the old man did remind her of that John Doe freak. She could see the resemblance, even though 317 had been drugged up to the hairline. Murder lurked underneath that green surface, like ice in a river somewhere.

"If you run, we're gonna hunt you down, and when we catch you, we're gonna make you die real slow." The old bastard threw a couple of yellow legal pads and two black pens onto the kitchen table. "Now. I want you to write everything down that you can remember about where Gabriel is. I mean _everything_. Otherwise, I'm gonna let Missy use her knife on you again."

Missy in the yellow dress grinned at her. _Oh please, give me a reason. I liked cutting on you._

"After that? We're gonna go on a little trip to the crazy place. I wanna check out what you wrote down, so you better not lie to me, bitch."

McCandless nodded again. Her fingers cramped as she picked up a pad and one of the pens and started writing. Serve Beck and the rest right for firing her.

Ventilation shafts ran all through the ceilings in Ward A, and the intensive care unit. The nutcases couldn't climb up to reach the grate, but someone able-bodied could climb in, and down from the roof. It was doable, especially if someone knew the rotation of the orderlies on the floor. McCandless' eyes narrowed as she thought about the layout of the grounds around the building. She wasn't going to leave a damn thing out, especially if it meant that she could walk out of here alive.

Thinking about Beck losing that pet freak of his was good.

Imagining Beck shot to death by one of these hillbilly freaks was even better.

McCandless smiled a little to herself as she wrote down everything.

* * *

Deputy Kathleen Hudak stared at the phone in her hand for a moment. Now this was a blast from the past. In her mind's eye she imagined that very tall young man in the black suit she'd met four years ago. "Agent Matthews? So how have you been?"

"Fine." She knew he wasn't, and she wasn't surprised when he answered 'no' to her next question: "Did you ever find your cousin?"

Kathleen settled back in her chair. She recognized the vibe she was getting from Matthews. She had a similar wound. Even after all this time, the pain she felt in her heart about her brother Riley never lessened. He'd gotten into that black Mustang of his and just disappeared one day. Just like that.

It was damned hard to lose a family member like that, and she'd known from the start that this was more than just a favor to some friends or family. A person doesn't look that sad if the favor is casual.

Matthews' tone suddenly shifted, firm and all professional. Kathleen smiled a little, even nodded to herself. She'd used that trick herself. _I'm okay because I say I am. _

"I'm calling about Sweetbriar State Hospital. I'm following up a lead on another case."

"Sweetbriar, huh? Well," she shrugged, "one of the orderlies committed suicide about a week before. Withers was his name, I think. Went up to the bell tower, tied a rope around his neck and stepped off into eternity. No one knows why. Stress of the job, maybe. Talked to Nathan Beck out there. Said Withers was a model employee. Beck had no idea why he'd take a swan dive like that."

"Who's Beck?"

"Head of security. They save money by having most of the orderlies double as guards. No money in the budget for any real training. The only real job qualification to be an orderly out there is to be healthy and able-bodied. That's it."

"Have they done a tox screen on the body?"

"Autopsy results won't be available for another two weeks. Wouldn't be surprised to find recreational drug use. It's not good to let a job like that get inside your head. Folks cope with stress in different ways."

"I can imagine," Matthews said stiffly.

_I bet you can,_ Kathleen thought silently. She wanted to ask him how he was coping, but after all she hadn't seen the man in four years.

"Anything else you can tell me about the place?"

"There's been the usual allegations of patient abuse throughout the years. Comes with the territory in places like this." Kathleen swore she could feel the sadness deepen. "Dr. Ephraim Weddington is the Director there now. He's been there the longest, about two years. Before he showed up that Director's office was like a revolving door. He's strictly by the book. Even if he wanted to improve the place, he doesn't have the money for it anyway. State budget's in the red nowadays. You mind telling me why the FBI be interested in Sweetbriar?"

"I can't really comment on that."

"Fair enough. Anything else I can do for you, Agent?"

"Uh, no. It's good to hear your voice, Deputy."

"You too. Take care."

* * *

Damn Winchesters.

There was tension in the air; Bobby could feel it. They'd all been preoccupied with salting and burning that poor dead girl Meg had ridden to death. Now that was over with, Bobby knew it was only a matter of time before the big blow-up occurred. Things between John and Sam were too raw for anything else to happen. Dean was the only reason they had reached anything remotely resembling an unspoken truce, and_ that_ wasn't going to last very long.

Sam sat at the living room table with his laptop. He spent a couple of hours doing research online about Sweetbriar State Hospital and then called that Deputy Hudak. John made several phone calls while he made himself comfortable on the couch.

Bobby sat at the opposite end of the table. He didn't miss the irony, didn't miss the fact that he had placed himself between the two of them. _My God,_ Bobby wondered, _was this what Dean had to deal with, every damn day these three were together?_

John lifted up his left foot. Bobby narrowed his eyes. "You put your damn boot on my coffee table and you'll draw back with a stump," Bobby growled.

The foot froze in mid-air. "With all those books on the damn thing, who the hell is gonna notice, grandma?" John smirked. He lowered his foot anyway. Slowly. "Well?" he nodded at the phone in Bobby's hand. "What'd you find out?"

"Talked to a couple of hunters in the area. Rae's Tap Room is less than five miles away from Sweetbriar. Most of the employees stop there after their shift."

John smiled slightly. "Good deal. I'll call Ramsey. Get this set up right away."

Sam sighed as he put his cell down. "We might have a way in. Seems one of the employees killed himself for no reason."

"Meg." The way John spat out the word sounded like a curse word.

Sam nodded. "Dean hasn't been at Sweetbriar the entire time. Hudak and I would have found him when we checked the hospitals the first time."

Bobby nodded. John grunted softly, and Bobby didn't miss the sharp look Sam gave his father.

Damn, this was like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Bobby narrowed his eyes. Sam tensed, sat up straighter in his chair. He stuck his chin out in John's direction.

John sat forward.

"Dean wasn't at Sweetbriar all this time," John said calmly. Bobby's head jerked in his direction.

"How the hell do you know that?" Bobby grumbled.

"Missouri told me."

"And _when_ did she tell you this, Dad?"

John quirked an eyebrow at his youngest. The edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut. "Tried to tell you the last time I called you, remember? _You_ hung up on_ me_, Sam."

Sam glared at his father.

"Dean's not alone in there. This other one…Missouri seems to think it's a spirit of some kind. It has a family. A human family. They hunt people. For food. And for sport."

The noise level in the room dropped to zero just then. Pin drop quiet. The grandfather clock in the corner quietly ticked the seconds away.

Sam clenched both fists together, hard. His face blanked as if what John was saying was too painful for Sam to even acknowledge it.

"This other family…they're gonna want him back, just like we want Dean back." John raised his head, looked Sam directly in the eyes. "You and I…we _have_ to do this together, Sam."

"I don't believe a damn word you're saying," Sam snapped. "I'm getting Dean out by myself. I don't need you."

John's eyes flashed dangerously as he sat straight up. "Are you _really_ that damn _stupid_, Sam?"

"At least I give a damn about Dean. You don't."

"You're going to lose him. We're going to lose him. You hate me _that_ much, you'd do that to your own brother?"

"I don't hate Dean."

"No. You hate _me_. You always have."

_"For Christ's sake, will both of you shut the hell up!"_ Bobby roared.

Both of them did.

"Are you _finished_?" Bobby turned in his chair, looked at first John, and then Sam. "Are _you_? I mean, look, all this angst is highly entertaining and all." Bobby put all the sarcasm he could muster into his voice, which was considerable. "I could sit here all day and watch you two princesses squall and hiss like scalded cats, but none of that is gonna do Dean any damn good. Now, if you need to take this discussion outside in the yard and settle it by kicking each others' asses, I got no problem with that, but you better make it damn fast. Each moment you waste like this is another moment Dean has to stay in that damn place."

Neither idjit said anything.

"Well?"

Sam didn't say a word. He closed his laptop, stood up and grabbed his jacket. John stood up and snagged his own coat off the back of the couch.

"You're damn idiots, you know that?" Bobby grumbled.

John and Sam nodded at the same time. They knew.

* * *

"No."

"John?"

317 blinked at the strange man in white. "Come on. It's okay."

"No." He stared at the gurney. His head hurt, a lot, but the longer he stared at the machine next to the gurney, the more the sight of the damn thing made him want to back up. The box was quiet, but it buzzed sometimes. 317 was sure of it.

"No. No." He shook his head. They never listened to him in this place. Maybe if he said the word more than once, maybe…

"No…" He shuffled backwards even though the stranger held onto his right wrist. 317 flinched as he backed up. At first he thought he'd walked backwards into a padded wall. He glanced over his shoulder behind him. It was another man in white.

The new one growled at him, and then hands came at him from all directions, grabbed his skin hard enough to leave bruises, but not in a good way this time. He couldn't breathe because of the arm around his throat, and they lifted him up and slammed him down on the gurney, which was exactly the one place he didn't want to go.

A part of his mind, the calm part that was still untouched by all this, watched as they put the straps across his wrists, chest, and ankles. He yelped when the needle went in the soft thin skin inside his elbow. The air shimmered, turned different shades of blue, light and dark.

"No. Nooo!" It was the only thing he could say, and it wasn't enough. It never was.

"John, this is going to make you feel better." That lying whisper wormed its way into his head. They hurt him and they lied. They always did. John felt his lips skin back from his teeth in a snarl. He was numb; the blue juice inside him saw to that. There was no real threat behind it.

"You want to feel better, don't you?"

They turned the dial, opened the switch, and the white bees flew into his head and swept aside everything, even the word _no_.

* * *

Next post Friday.


	13. someone to watch over me

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 13 – someone to watch over me**_

"I'll be damned," Hudak whispered. She sat back in her chair, stared at the wide green eyes of the man on the computer screen. Kathleen hated surprises and this certainly qualified. The precinct and the world drew away from her. She was left in a vacuum, sitting at her desk, just her and a man she'd thought lost four years ago.

Kathleen stared into the face of Dean Winchester, and a chill inched its way up her spine. It was easy to recall the photo Matthews had shown her. At the time she remembered thinking that Dean wasn't bad looking.

Strike that. He was extremely handsome, hell, beautiful in a manly way. Smooth freckled skin, short dark blond hair, full lips set in a slightly lopsided smirk. That mischievous glint in his eyes was hard to miss. A grin like that was practically guaranteed to antagonize law enforcement officials everywhere. Dean Winchester had the look of trouble, like he was born to it.

She wouldn't kick him out of bed even if he was eating crackers, as her aunt used to say. Hudak felt a little bad about perving on the boy. He was a missing person, after all, but, well, damn….

Now she stared at the way he looked now, or at least the way he did six months ago. He was still drop dead gorgeous, but it was that look in his eyes that really bothered her. Maybe it was due to the computer monitor, but his eyes seemed a darker green. He looked confused but feral, like a cornered wild dog, ready to lash out at any and everyone, in any direction. His hair was longer and lighter, sandy blond, shoulder length. A jagged red streak of dried blood ran from his right temple to his chin.

Hudak glanced at the rest of the screen. The report hadn't said much. John Doe 317 was found stumbling down highway 57, half a mile from Kugel's Keg. He was confused and combative towards the officers who responded on the scene. He didn't know who or where he was. After paramedics were called to treat his head wound, he was taken to County General and then remanded to Sweetbriar the next day.

Kathleen remembered to breathe, deep and slow. She had to process this. She barely noticed when her finger hit the print key. The printer responded, and she walked over and picked up her copy up without much thought.

She did her job the rest of the day, quietly and efficiently. It was the usual, mundane stuff. Several abandoned cars on the highway (10-73, and she prayed to God that they'd just ran out of gas, that it wasn't anything like what happened to Riley), two assaults (code 10-84), a domestic disturbance (code 10-79), and a traffic stop with Beavis and Butthead that yielded twenty pounds of marijuana stuffed inside the shell of this old blue plastic hair dryer in the back seat. It was the mother of all drug calls (10-69), at least in these parts. That added a good three hours overtime, what with the paperwork and inventorying all the other crap they had in that beat up car of theirs.

Hours later she was at home, sitting curled up on her couch underneath that fluffy thick green afghan Aunt Helen had given her for Christmas. She had a big cup of chunky chicken noodle soup in one hand and that rolled up report in the other.

Her mind was finally able to wrap itself around what she'd found.

There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't think of Riley. She looked at Dean Winchester's mug shot and thought of him now.

Heck, even Matthews said this Dean was the black sheep of the family. The ne'er do well. It was obvious Winchester had been _somewhere_ the past four years. He looked well-nourished. He'd grown his hair out, maybe tried to change his appearance.

He'd made a life for himself somewhere, or tried to at least. Might have found people who didn't care who he was, or where he'd come from. Everyone needs a soft place to fall. Maybe he wanted more for himself, and he'd found it, until drugs or mental illness caught up with him, and landed him in Sweetbriar.

And maybe she was reading too much into this, projecting her own feelings onto this situation. Riley had vanished into thin air. This kid hadn't, but still…his family had a right to know where he was, even if they choose not to do anything about it.

Kathleen sighed and put the report face down on the couch. She couldn't see Winchester's eyes when she did that, and that was fine by her. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then something was definitely wrong with that picture.

She could call Matthews tomorrow.

_After_ she went out to Sweetbriar in the morning.

* * *

_I won't be gone long._

_I understand._ Jimmy Novak smiled slightly. He turned over on his side and closed his eyes. He didn't move, not even moments later, when the door slot banged open and then shut a minute later for the nightly bed check.

Castiel opened his eyes.

* * *

The man in cell 1A lay curled on his side on the padded floor. His sandy blonde, shoulder length hair lay loosely around his broad shoulders. Castiel was not fooled peaceful expression on his face. There were two souls inside his body: one was an abomination; the other was an innocent.

Gabriel Bender dreamed of red murder and wind chimes made of human bones. His family home was a charnel pit, and he reveled in it as he and his family silently stalked their prey in the woods, effortlessly, with great skill, and without mercy.

Dean Winchester was submerged underneath his own skin in a pit of darkness. He struggled against it, but he was too weak. Gabriel was stronger. It was incomprehensible to Castiel that the darker soul had been named Gabriel by his parents. Gabriel was a child of light; this one was anything but.

Castiel leaned down, stared intently at that face, as beautiful a creation as any angel Father created up in Heaven.

Dark green eyes blinked open in surprise.

"Gabriel Bender, I am not here for you." One touch of Castiel's hand on Dean Winchester's forehead, and Gabriel's eyes rolled up white into his head.

"Come forth, Dean Winchester," Castiel whispered softly. "We must talk."

* * *

Touching him…they were touching him…

_Not again,_ Dean thought. _Please, not again._

"…no…nuh…get off…" Dean grated out roughly. "Get your fucking hands off me…" He jerked backwards, knowing full well that would only make them angry. It was all he had left, that little act of defiance. Half the time his body and mind didn't work right, but Dean did what he could.

He backpedaled blindly, kicked out with his feet and legs, until his back thudded up against the padded wall, and his eyes blinked open. Dean's head ached, and so did his jaws. He could barely remember a time when they hadn't ached.

The man sitting on the floor in front of him didn't look like an orderly. He wore the white scrubs of a patient. He had dark curly hair and bright blue eyes. Dude tilted his head to one side as he stared at Dean, and Dean stared right back at him.

This was too damn weird. "Christo," Dean muttered out loud.

Nothing.

"Hello, Dean." Even the voice sounded strange. Not medicated, though. Too formal, as though he wasn't used to speaking out loud.

"Who…who the hell are you?"

"I am Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord."

Dean barked laughter, short and humorless, and that made his chest and throat hurt even more. Well, duh. He was in the nuthouse, right? Weird, freaky shit like this obviously came with the territory.

The floor tried to slip sideways out from underneath him. His muscles were weak, sprung. Dean pushed his back into the wall, put both palms down on the floor to steady himself. It didn't help much. "Okay. _Cassie_," Dean added pointedly. Weird name for a dude. "I'm Batman."

"My name is Castiel." The man frowned. "I do not understand the reference. You do not look like a flying mammal."

"Forget it, dude," Dean shook his head. The motion made his head swim. He closed his eyes against the nausea and the pain. Closing his eyes while he was in a padded room with a nutcase wasn't the smartest thing, but he didn't have very many options here.

Dean opened his eyes when he heard the metal rasp of the door slot being pulled open. He couldn't remember having a room mate before. He hadn't, had he? He glanced towards the door and the muscles in his arms and legs began to shake and wobble, all on there own.

_Eyes in the walls,_ Dean thought,_ trouble always means eyes in the walls._ His gut clenched up, tight and painful, and he tried pushing himself inside that damn wall. This was going to be bad. It always was...

The orderly looked in. He stared directly at Dean. The man's eyes didn't even flicker in Castiel's direction.

The slot banged shut.

"Are you convinced now?"

"No," Dean murmured wearily.

Castiel looked confused. "No? Why not?"

Dean shrugged, even though the motion made his head throb. "You're crazy. And I'm fucked up in the head. We're in the loony bin, remember?"

The so-called angel of the lord frowned slightly as he leaned forward. "You must pay attention, Dean. We do not have much time."

"None of this real. You're not real."

"You need to settle yourself, Dean."

Dean laughed. His chest and throat hitched, once, and then twice, and the laugh turned into a series of coughs, hoarse and raspy. He closed his eyes as he leaned forward.

"Here." Something pushed against his mouth. Dean's eyes fluttered open. Castiel was right there with him, nose to nose.

"D-Damn," Dean choked out as he jerked back. He didn't have a lot of room to work with. The back of his head thumped against the wall padding. "Personal space, dude."

Water bottle. Hadn't seen a water bottle before, had he? He could smell water. Could almost taste it. Dean's stomach growled in response. His throat was so dry it burned.

Well, hell, why not? Might as well play along. Dean parted his lips and Castiel carefully tilted the bottle up, just a little. "Drink slowly, Dean. Take a little at a time."

It was the sweetest water he'd ever tasted. Cool and fresh enough to temporarily wash away that metallic taste in his mouth. Dean slowly drank half, then nearly cursed a blue streak when the bottle was pulled away. "How the hell did you…"

Castiel quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, right," Dean muttered hoarsely. Dude didn't look like Roma Downey, or Della Reese. Or Michael Landon. He couldn't even hallucinate up a hot angel chick, a redhead with a nice rack, wearing a black leather bikini and those large white fake wings. How pathetic was that?

"You have a spirit inside you. I've made him sleep for now."

Dean's eyes unfocused slightly.

"_The Lord has forgiven me for what I did to you," the old man in the trucker's cap sat forward. He held Dean's right hand tightly, and his eyes misted up as he put his forehead against Dean's knuckles. _

_Dean felt his lips move. "…it's all right, Abraham…"_

"_I love you, Gabriel. I always have," the girl murmured. She ran her fingers over his bare shoulders and he leaned into the touch._

_Missy… _

_The dude in the business suit screamed as he ran, and Dean grinned a little as he tracked him through the darkness of the woods. He loved this life. It was just him and his family, hunting people, taking whatever they wanted. Abraham nodded at him, and his smile was just as feral._

Something lightly touched him, and Dean came back to himself with a jerk. Castiel knelt there with his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean wanted to shake him off, but he was too weak even for that.

"His connection to your body is too strong. He's lived inside you for the last four years. If I removed him, that would destroy you."

"Maybe you should."

"You cannot mean that."

"Yeah. I do. This…this isn't living. Drugged up, lost inside my own head…if I could, I'd kill myself."

"You would go to hell if you did."

Another hoarse bark of laughter. "And I'm not there already?"

"No. Believe me, this place is _not_ hell. Do you remember what your mother told you when you were a child?"

Maybe it was the drugs, or the way his head suddenly felt light, like a balloon. Nothing much mattered anymore. Dean laughed. "She told me that angels were watching over me."

"Yes."

"She was wrong."

"No, she wasn't."

"Yeah, she was. She still died. You couldn't save her. Is that all you bastards do, just stand around and watch? You get your jollies watching people die?"

"No, Dean. There is a plan to all of this."

"God's got a plan, huh?" Dean shook his head. "I thought He was making this crap up as he went along."

"You are angry about your mother. I understand that," Castiel nodded. "You need to rest, Dean. You need to conserve your strength. Your father and your brother are coming for you very soon."

"Enough," Dean growled roughly. "I've had fuckin' enough of this crap. None of this is real. _You _aren't real."

"I told you ---"

"Get the hell away from me." Dean slapped Castiel's hand away. "Get the hell out of my head."

"You do not understand –"

"I don't?" Dean grinned wolfishly. Castiel recoiled a bit, and Dean's grin got a little wider at the look of fear that jittered across the man's features. "Oh, I get it. My Dad, and my brother? They don't know where I am. They never will." He leaned forward, until they were nose to nose, and damn, he felt better. His arms and legs were steady, despite the drugs. He wanted to reach out and strangle this bastard. "You're not an angel. You're a chemical mind fuck. And if you aren't, and you are real, then you better listen close to what I'm saying. I don't believe in you feathered sonsabitches."

"What?"

"You heard me. You're just like the bastards I've been hunting all my life. There's no damn difference, you hear me? They kill people. You let people die because you stand around and friggin' watch. That's _what_ you do," Dean snapped viciously. "That's _all_ you do."

"My vessel and I are here to help you." There was a stiffness to Castiel's tone, as if he was not used to being treated this way.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "So you took this dude over."

"He prayed for this."

"Uh huh. So what's the difference between you and this thing inside me?"

"I am an angel of the Lord."

"Sure you are," Dean growled. His right arm lashed out, hand curled into a fist.

Castiel's nose crunched underneath Dean's knuckles. The man made a surprised sound full of anger and confusion as he landed on his ass with a spine rattling thump.

_Huh,_ Dean thought as they stared at each other. _Made him bleed._

Dean blinked.

He was alone in the cell now. His knuckles still stung from the blow. Dean stared owlishly at the smear of blood on his skin. _Gonna pay for this,_ he thought muzzily to himself, and a second later his body proved him right. His eyelids grew heavy, and that now familiar weakness in his body came flooding back. It filled him up, like ocean currents rushing in to fill up a tidal pool somewhere.

Curling up on that padded floor seemed like a mighty good idea right now. Dean laid down on his side with slow, awkward movements. The sluggish sound of his breathing echoed like thunder in his ears as he sank back underneath his skin.

A moment later Gabriel opened his eyes.

* * *

Next post Friday. The Winchesters and the Benders arrive at Sweetbriar, and all hell breaks loose.


	14. come into my parlor

_**A/N:**_ I promised that all heck would break loose today. This chapter was 20 pages long, with plenty of hell in each one to spare, so I'm posting both today.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 14 – come into my parlor**_

_**Thursday night…**_

Cal Grissom knew he was screwed.

Sure, he wobbled a little as he stood up and pushed himself away from the table. He'd spent a lot of time at Rae's Tap Room, knocking back beer and hard liquor, but no matter how toasted he got, he could always tell when someone was watching him.

Like now.

He burped noisily as he slipped a ten out of his pocket and flung it down on the floor. The two dudes sitting at the table over on the left very pointedly stopped staring in his direction as he wheeled around and made his way to the door.

He heard the scrape of wooden chair legs as they both got up at the same time. Fucking amateurs. Some perversely calm part of Grissom's mind had already named the short one Heckle and the taller one Jeckle.

Grissom also knew he was going to get mugged.

That was the way things had been going lately. Sour. Working at Sweetbriar just wasn't fun anymore. Grissom wasn't sure, but he thought it might have started spiraling down the day Beck's green eyed freak showed up. That business with Withers was some freaky damn stuff, and talk about stupid,_ that_ was McCandless groping Beck's kid like that.

Dumb bitch. Grissom liked the female nurses just fine; they knew their place. The talk in the wards was that Beck never should have hired that manly looking bitch. Beck was slipping. Beck was losing his touch.

The buzz in Grissom's head lightened up a little when he hit the cool night air. He laughed to himself, a short, gruff sound. Wasn't like they were going to get a lot out of him. He had another ten in his wallet, his IDs and his credit cards. Payday was tomorrow, Friday.

He laughed again._ If you'd waited one more day, you assholes, you coulda gotten it all._

He could have just handed his wallet over, but it was the principle of the thing. There were two kinds of people in the world: those who get screwed, and those doing the screwing. Grissom was determined to be in the second group. Man had to draw the line somewhere.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind, and Grissom knew he was too drunk when he turned around and a fist slammed into his face, hard enough to make his knees wobble. One of the muggers slipped his hand inside Grissom's pants pocket, going for the wallet, naturally, as the other one held him by the arms.

"Hey! What are you sonsabitches doing?" someone roared. The taller mugger, Jeckle, turned in the direction of the Good Samaritan, and he was promptly surprised by the fist the man planted in his face. Heckle let go of Grissom's arms, and everything stopped.

Just like that.

Grissom barely felt the ground underneath his knees, but he realized that Heckle and Jeckle were hightailing it across the parking lot. Something lay on the ground a few inches from his hand. His wallet. His fingers shook as he picked it up.

"Bastards," the Good Samaritan spat out. "Gettin' so a man can't even take a fucking drink in peace. Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Grissom nodded as the dude knelt down beside him. Everything went tilt-a-whirl for a moment, and then Grissom was able to concentrate on the man's face underneath the overhead lights. He was an older guy, dark haired, with fairly heavy stubble, and hazel eyes that flashed with a dangerous glint. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fact that he'd just been saved an ass kicking.

It was love at first sight for Cal Grissom.

"Mister, you just saved my ass," Grissom muttered.

"No problem. You wanna go back inside, call the cops?"

"Nah." Grissom shook his head. "I need another drink, though."

The other man laughed. "I imagine so. Okay." He took Grissom by the arm and helped him up.

"By the way, my name's Calvin Grissom."

The Good Samaritan nodded. "Name's Elroy McGillicuddy."

* * *

Sam's scars itched, but they didn't hurt anymore. If he closed his eyes he could see them, red and jagged, a starburst pattern carved into the thin skin over his left hipbone. On one level he counted himself lucky that Lim hadn't marked him where everyone could see. Sam knew luck had absolutely nothing to do with that.

Sealing the deal with Lim hurt like nothing Sam had ever felt before. Sam was no virgin, but he felt like one. Lim pushed him open from behind, filled him almost to bursting, and when it came inside him Sam nearly screamed out from the liquid heat and the white hot pain.

The lifelines in the palms of both hands seemed faded somehow. He didn't notice that until much later.

_"I wonder if your brother knows how much you really love him," Lim murmured softly in Sam's memory. The demon stuck its long, mottled blue tongue out and licked a stripe up the side of Sam's neck. "Remember, boy. Your love for him won't change my final price. It stays the same."_

_Sam nodded, and Lim grinned widely as he pulled out of Sam from behind._

_"You taste so good, Samuel," it whispered into his ear. "I will save some for later then."_

_Sam lay curled up on his side in the grass. His face was wet, his eyelashes thick and gummy with tears. His cock ached; so did his ass and his lower back. He laid there with his legs folded up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees, until the muscles in his arms and legs stopped shaking, until he could no longer hear Lim's laughter, and all Sam could think of was Dean._

_He won't want to be around me after this._

"Uh, Earth to Sam. Come in, Sam," Bobby grumbled softly.

Sam blinked.

"Don't know where you were just now, boy," Bobby muttered, "but I can tell it wasn't a happy place." Bobby _didn't_ say "Do you want to talk about it?" He knew with Sam he didn't have to.

Sam shook his head _no_.

Fair enough. They sat in the darkened Chevelle on the parking lot of Rae's Tap Room and watched John Winchester walk back into the place with Calvin Grissom.

The Fletcher twins crept up to the passenger side of the Chevelle. The younger boy, Clyde, snickered a little as he opened Sam's door and pushed his way into the back seat. Sam didn't even blink as he was pushed face forward into the dashboard. First Clyde muscled his way in, and then his brother Emmett did the same.

"You ladies having fun yet?" Bobby drawled.

Emmett settled back against the bench seat and scowled. "No." He rubbed at the bruise on his left cheek, then good-naturedly poked Sam in the shoulder. "Your daddy nailed me good."

"Uh huh," Sam muttered.

All four men watched as the door to the Tap Room swung shut. "Well," Bobby sighed. "Sam, you can show up at Sweetbriar tomorrow morning looking for a job. We'll set up the phone lines when they call for a reference." Bobby glanced at the Fletchers. "You boys did good, setting all this up. Nice job."

Clyde beamed proudly. "Well, Daddy wouldn't have survived that hunt if it hadn't been for Dean. When Mr. Winchester called us we figured we had to help."

Bobby nodded "Appreciate it." He cast a sideways glance at Sam. Kid was too damn quiet. He wasn't always this…_rude_. Bobby couldn't read him, right now, and that was worrisome.

About an hour later John Winchester stood on the parking lot and watched Cal Grissom get into his battered old pick-up truck and drive off. When he turned around, John smirked. It was a triumphant, happy expression, as good as Dean's smirk had ever been on a really good day.

Bobby grunted.

John sauntered over to Sam's side of the Chevelle and leaned down. "Got him," He said smugly. "Dumb bastard gave me his card, said I had a job at Sweetbriar if I wanted it."

Sam nodded. He looked at John, and he kept his mouth closed. Sam didn't say what he_ really_ wanted to say, not in front of Bobby or the Fletchers: "What's…what's gonna happen after we get Dean back?"

Sam could imagine John giving that careless shrug of his. "Depends."

"On what?"

"Depends on how bad off he is."

Sam could imagine his mouth forming the words, "I need to know if you're going to hang around. If you're going to stay with him." but he didn't, because he knew John would pick up on it then. John would know what Sam didn't want to say out loud: _You need to be here with Dean, Dad, because he's not gonna want me around after this._

_Why?_

That question Sam did not want to answer.

A large silver Ford F150 truck pulled into a front space on the other side of the door. A tall man wearing a battered brown leather jacket got out and sauntered for the door.

Sam blinked. This dude reminded him of Dad. He was a younger version, right down to the dark brown hair and the stubble.

Clyde Fletcher grunted. "That's Beck."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Nathan Beck? From Sweetbriar?"

"Yeah." Emmett nodded. "Teddy the bartender pointed him out to us." Emmett rolled his eyes. "Teddy's a dumbass."

"Okay." Sam put his hand on the door latch. John stood back and growled as Sam opened the door and stepped out. "Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

They were in deep shadow on their side of the lot. Beck didn't even notice the men or the Chevelle. He jingled his keys as he pulled the door open and walked inside.

Sam smiled tightly. "Gonna go in there and introduce myself."

John nodded.

* * *

Beck could always pick out the likely ones, and this kid certainly qualified. He was a tall drink of water, broad-shouldered, with shaggy dark brown hair blue green eyes.

The kid walked up to Teddy and ordered a beer. Beck sat at at the counter and and watched. This one didn't order one of those wimpy ass special drafts. He was drinking good old American beer, nice and foaming, straight from the tap. The cuff of his tan jacket rose up when he slid that ten bucks over to Teddy. That was when Beck noticed the raised scar on the young man's arm. It wasn't a suicide attempt; that would have been _over_ the wrist. This was on the diagonal, looked like a defensive wound.

Beck could appreciate that.

That hard glint in the kid's blue green eyes got even harder when he saw Beck staring. "Take a picture, sweetheart." Oh yeah, that throaty growl rattled Beck's spine. "It'll last longer. You think this is bad? You should see the other guy."

Beck felt heat flare up in his belly. He wanted to fuck this kid. Right here, right now. He could see himself pushing this one face first into wall, he could imagine licking and biting that broad back. Lately, John Doe 317 had Beck's undivided attention. Show John a red pill, a devil's sunrise, and he'd practically sit up and beg like a good little bitch.

John was a fun little puppy. It wasn't that Beck was getting bored with him. That wouldn't happen until they carried 317 out in a body bag. The unlucky sonofabitch wasn't going anywhere, after all, but there was something to be said for variety. It was the spice of life. This kid looked like he was a challenge, but doable. Worth the trouble to tame.

When Beck told Teddy to break out that bottle of John Walker Black and two glasses, the kid actually smirked a little.

They went over to a table in the corner, and Beck didn't miss the way the younger man moved, with agility and strength. The invitation to the dance was slow and measured. The boy gave up his name twenty minutes into the conversation: Sam Wesson. Forty five minutes later, Sam Wesson walked out the door with Nathan Beck's business card, and the promise of a job at Sweetbriar State Hospital in the morning, if he wanted it. All he had to do was show up.

If there was one thing Nathan Beck prided himself on, it was having control. Beck leaned forward and as he passed the business card across the table he couldn't resist putting his hand between Sam Wesson's legs and squeezing his cock like a shopper at a supermarket squeezing an orange.

Wesson leaned into the touch. He didn't even flinch.

Ten minutes later he was up and out the door.

Yeah. Definitely fuckable.

* * *

His girl had something on her mind. Abraham could always tell.

"All right, Missy," Pa rumbled. "What is it?"

He glanced in the rear view mirror. Lee and Jerry were directly behind in the other truck. From the stiff, upright way Lena McCandless sat on the seat between them, Pa guessed that Lee and Jerry had kept their hands to themselves, for a while at least.

The dumb bitch still thought they were going to let her go after this. Pa should his head in amazement. Too damn stupid to live.

Maybe it was the lights on the highway overhead, or the night shadows playing on the planes of her face, but Missy looked really young, almost like she did when she was thirteen. "I want a baby, Pa," she whispered softly.

Pa nodded. It was probably past time for this conversation. Nothing had come from all that fucking she and Gabriel had been doing for the past four years. He knew what was coming next, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"I want a baby."

Abraham nodded. "Okay. Once we get Gabe home, we'll go into town and pick out one you'd like."

Missy shook her head. "No. Not like that. I want Gabriel's baby. I want…We could get one of these bitches out here, couldn't we, Pa? A younger girl, maybe? I want Gabriel to fuck her. For as long as it takes. And I want to keep the baby that comes out." She shrugged. "It won't be all mine, but it'll be half his."

Abraham smiled. "Sure. We can do that, baby girl. We sure can."

Missy leaned back against the seat, snuggled underneath her blanket, and closed her eyes.

Pa slowed the truck as he turned onto the ramp for the highway. Sweetbriar was still hours away. His expression darkened as he glanced at Lee and Jerry in the rear view mirror. They wouldn't like the idea of Gabriel having two women to fuck. That might be a problem, but it was their own damn fault.

Kid's nowadays didn't have any gumption, the old man said. Lee and Jerry could have brought a woman or two home themselves, could have kept her locked up in the barn or the basement, but they didn't. Instead they bitched and moaned like babies when somebody took away their bottles.

Truth to tell, Pa was kind of proud that Missy had even thought of this. She was definitely his baby girl.

* * *

_**The second part of this chapter follows this one.**_


	15. said the spider to the fly

_**Chapter 15 – said the spider to the fly**_

_**Friday morning**_

Things were different.

Things were different, and Gabriel didn't know why. He could feel Dean asleep inside him, but Dean felt stronger somehow. Not as weak. Gabriel remembered bright blue eyes and dark curly hair, but there hadn't been anyone in the room with him last night, had there?

"_Sleep, Gabriel. You are not the one I need."_

Gabriel sat with his back jammed into the corner, and he didn't react when the door slot was pulled open. He glanced at the opening.

_…eyes in the walls…_

He recognized that fat prick Weddington. Beck was out there too. The third person was a woman with red hair. He could see her face, but he couldn't see much else.

For a moment or two Gabriel couldn't identify what he was feeling. His hands tightened around his knees. He never did put a name to the emotion, but what he was feeling was rage. Rage that was dulled by the drugs inside him, but a killing rage all the same.

_I want to kill you,_ Gabriel thought as he stared at her, intense and unblinking. _Want to put my hands around your throat and squeeze until you turn blue and die, bitch._

He was tired. Sick and tired, and it was all too much. Gabriel wanted his pills. Wanted, needed, there wasn't much difference anymore. He wanted Beck to touch him, to take him, and make him forget about all of this. He wanted to forget that Dean was inside him.

He wanted all that, but in life people rarely get what they want.

* * *

"Can I speak to him?" Deputy Katherine Hudak used her most official voice. Wearing her uniform and driving up first thing in the morning was the best thing, the _only_ thing to do in this situation.

Dr. Weddington shook his head. "I wouldn't advise it."

"Why not?"

The good doctor pushed his glasses further back on his nose and huffed. Katherine knew the tone behind it: _Stupid civilians. None of you understand what we're dealing with here._ "John Doe 317 has an alter named Dean. That fits with what you told us about him. This…Dean…is violent and dangerous."

"Really? He's on his meds, isn't he?"

She could tell by the way slight sneer on Beck's face that working for him would have been pure hell. He obviously disliked women with authority. Probably women period. The uniform and the gun on her hip didn't change any of that. Beck shrugged. "Yes, he is. But that hasn't stopped Dean from emerging. He's destroyed property and attacked my men. I can show you that mess he made of his cell in Ward C if you like."

"I'd still like to talk to him," Katherine said firmly. Maybe the uniform would do the trick…

"No, ma'm." Weddington said politely. "Unless you have a court order, our concern for your safety and the safety of everyone here overrules any informal request you might make."

"I see." Katherine leaned down, and as she stared into the cell the man inside turned his head to stare right back at her.

He looked dangerous. Feral, somehow, despite the padded room around him, the white patients' scrubs he wore, and the slightly glazed look in those dark green eyes.

Hudak was hardly aware of it, but her right hand settled on the butt of her gun.

Beck caught the motion. So did Weddington.

"All right." Katherine blinked as she straightened up. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I'll relay the news to his family."

Weddington nodded. "Mr. Beck will see you out."

Hudak nodded and followed Beck out. She had Agent Matthews' cell phone number. Calling him would be the next step.

Five minutes later, Hudak pulled out of the visitor's parking lot and jerked her cruiser to a halt. She sat behind the wheel and stared at the man in the crosswalk in front of her.

FBI Agent David Matthews was dressed in a tan jacket, blue jeans and a grey v necked shirt.

Four years later, and he still looked young and wounded. He stood in front of the car, and the look on his face was just like a deer in the headlights. The look that flickered in his eyes was something dark and somehow desperate.

_Please,_ that look said._ Please…_

Katherine didn't know exactly what that silent plea was for, but she thought she understood. She looked him right in the eyes and nodded.

Matthews looked relieved. Those eyes of his glistened, with tears, perhaps, and when he nodded at her his lips curved upwards in a slight smile.

Katherine nodded back. _It's all right_, she thought at him. _Go._

She waited until he walked across, disappeared into the main building. Hudak even sat there patiently as some of the nurses passed too.

As she turned onto the road in front of the hospital she pulled over to the shoulder and sat there. Her vision clouded up. She knew she was crying, could feel the tears rolling down her face, and none of that mattered. She didn't know how long she sat there, staring up at Riley's picture taped to the sun visor. Time didn't matter. Not any more.

Truth to tell she stayed by the side of the road for an hour. That was time enough for everyone concerned in the matter of Dean Winchester and Gabriel Bender to take their places. _God works in mysterious ways,_ Missouri Moseley had said. John Winchester understood, or at least he thought he did. Missouri didn't mention that the ways are not necessarily good or fair.

Sometimes what happens can only be described as a clusterfuck.

All Katherine could think about was Riley, gone missing all these years. It was good to see that Dean's family would at least know where he was. It was the not knowing that killed a person.

Hudak was wrong about _that_, too.

The truck rumbled past her on the highway, and the growl of the engine made Katherine's eyes widen.

She remembered.

Remembered something from the missing persons' reports…some of the people she'd interviewed stated they had heard something making a loud growling sound.

Maybe it was nothing. Hudak watched as the truck continued down the road, and then she pulled out and followed it from a safe distance.

* * *

"Okay," McCandless whimpered softly. "This is it. Nobody ever comes out this way. Everyone uses the front." Her arms and legs shook. She sat in the truck, wedged in between the two men, and she stared at the back gate to Sweetbriar, and all she could think of was she never thought she'd ever see that place again.

"Oh please, oh Christ, please let me go. Please…"

The slightly smaller hillbilly slapped her upside the head. "Not until Pa gets here. Now shut the hell up, bitch."

* * *

They filled out paperwork, including the I-9s and the tax forms. It was a done deal, apparently, and all this was just paper for the personnel folder. The employment application was so brief it was ridiculous: one sheet, and the back of the form was blank.

After ten minutes the orderly grinned at them brightly. "Gonna give you boys the grand tour. Follow me, gents."

"Where's Beck?" Sam rumbled.

The dude laughed. He was tall, solidly built, with a white crew cut. "Oh, our fearless leader is around. He's the last stop on the tour. Said for me to give you the VIP treatment."

They started out in Ward D. The patients there were not heavily sedated. Voluntary commitments, Sam thought. They sat in the sun room, played checkers and watched television. Each one had their own separate rooms. It seemed nice enough, but a cage was still a cage, after all.

Sam knew in his gut that Dean was not in this ward.

* * *

It didn't seem right. Two trucks at the back gate. They hadn't gotten turned around, and these folks didn't seem to be lost. Katherine was careful enough to close the door to the cruiser softly. She could hear men's voices just beyond the trees and the brush, and what sounded like a woman's voice.

Hudak crouched down lower as walked up to the bushes.

She saw the girl a second or so later.

She was a visitor. Had to be. She was clean enough, with her long brown combed hair and that bright yellow dress. Maybe she'd wandered away from the main building.

Hudak pulled her hand away from her gun. It was a mistake.

The blade that flashed through the air was a silvery blur. She barely felt it as her carotid artery was slashed wide open. Katherine Hudak staggered forward a few more feet, then her knees buckled and she collapsed. Her blood gushed out onto the ground, collected around her body like the running water of a small stream.

Missy Bender stepped back. She'd lost interest. And besides, she hated cops, even lady ones.

* * *

Katherine blinked slowly. The world drew away from her one final time, but even so something gently brushed against her forehead.

She looked up at the man who knelt beside her, and she managed to smile.

Dying wasn't so bad, then.

"Riley," Katherine breathed.

Riley Hudak smiled. "Hi, Sis. Time to come home now."

* * *

Ward C was more of the same. The air seemed peaceful enough. Sam and John's escort didn't say much, not until they walked into Ward B.

"Right now you're just about scrapping the bottom of the barrel, gentlemen," Crew Cut chortled. "There's some real nut jobs in here. You ain't seen nothing yet. We need to really keep these in here in line. You gotta keep your foot on the back of their necks at all time."

"I hear you," John drawled. "A little ass kicking never hurt anybody."

* * *

Jerry pulled out his knife and slipped it between the large woman's ribs. She looked surprised as she stared down at herself. Her lower half and both legs were slimed with blood.

Pa growled. "Quit playin' with that bitch, will you?"

Jerry pushed the knife in again, deeper. He pulled it out as she slumped to the ground. He wiped the blade on her pants leg, looked up at Pa, and nodded. Dead was dead, all right.

Pa glared at Lee and Jerry. "Get the guns and the duffels. If we have to kill every damn body in this place, we will."

* * *

Crew Cut grinned even wider.

Sam hated what came out of his mouth next. "How many freaks you got in this ward?"

Whitey shrugged. "Twenty five. Same as Ward A. That's the greater snake pit. B is the lesser. Now you got some real prizes in there, lemme tell ya. 'Course if you bang 'em up a little too much, we got a hospital. Show you that one later."

Sam saw Dean everywhere, in every cell. His mind jittered from one scenario after another. He saw Dean pale and quiet, sitting in the corner of a padded room, knocking the back of his head against the padded walls, keeping time with his heartbeat. He saw Dean lying drug dazed in a cell somewhere, his body wrapped neatly, firmly inside a straightjacket, his wide green eyes blank and unfocused, staring at something only he could see. Better living through chemistry? Sam didn't think so/

John played the macho man to the hilt, and Sam hated him for it. He kept his rage to himself, because it wouldn't do for Elroy McGillicuddy and Sam Wesson to give it away that they knew each other.

The worst part was not knowing. Sam saw empty cells, and as they walked through he could tell John was thinking the same thing: _Where the hell is Dean?_

Twenty minutes later Crew Cut walked over to an exit door. "Final stop, fellas." He held the door open wide. There was nothing but trees and grass out there. Crew Cut pointed one beefy arm at the top of the hill. "There's a small pond just beyond that rise. You walk straight up there, and you can't miss it. The boss is up there, and he wants to show you something really special."

* * *

Abraham Bender crept up behind the brush, smoothly as if he'd hunted here all his life. Being here was a lot like home. He could imagine stalking someone through these trees.

There was a pond over there, right in the clearing past the trees, just below the top of the hill. Abraham stared at the two men who stood together, waist deep in the water.

_Thank you Lord,_ Abraham thought. _Thank you for bringing him back to us._

"Gabriel," Missy moaned quietly.

* * *

They didn't say very much on the way up. Each man was alone inside their heads with their own thoughts of guilt and regret. That wasn't much use to Dean, and John and Sam certainly knew that.

"He's here, Sam," John rumbled softly. "We'll find him." They crested the top of the hill and looked down at the pond.

Everything stopped. Sam couldn't remember whether he breathed or not. He must have. He couldn't think. All he could do was stare at the scene in front of him, frozen in shock.

Nathan Beck stood in the middle of the pond. He was bare-chested, and so was the man who stood next to him.

John and Sam watched as the two men kissed, deeply, slowly.

_Beck's made Dean his pet, Meg gloated in Sam's memory._

Beck carded that shoulder length sandy blond hair with his fingers, ran his fingers down that broad back. _Mine,_ that gesture said. _All mine._

Sam couldn't look away. He couldn't pretend. He was pretty sure that the look of pure shock on John's face mirrored his own.

_Oh, wait until you see him. Wish I could hang around for that one…_

It was one thing to hear about this. Quite another to actually see it.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

The man with the sandy blond hair turned and stared at Sam. There was no hint of recognition in those wide green eyes.

* * *

Okay guys, that's it for this week. If Real Life permits I'll post another chapter on Tuesday. If not, I will post on Monday and Friday the week after Christmas. Thank you all for your support, and have a safe and Merry Christmas!


	16. was blind, but now I see

_**A/N:**_ Over 300 reviews. Okay. I'm sitting here trying to think of something all witty to say. Can't think of anything except "Thank you." So that's what I'll say: "Thank you." Thanks for confirming my belief that boycotts are wrong, and that everyone out here is not a troll or a Nazi. I feel like babbling, so I won't. Chapter title taken from the song _Amazing Grace_.

* * *

_**Chapter 16 - was blind but now I see**_

"Should I shoot 'em all, Pa?" Lee whispered softly. He squinted as he put his right eye to the scope. Lee slid his finger smoothly around the trigger, and he waited. The crosshairs sighted perfectly, right in the middle of Gabe's broad back.

Damn good shot. Only thing was Gabriel blocked the path to the three other men: the one holding him and the two that just walked up the hillside.

Pa scowled fiercely. "Hell no, you damn fool. You'll hit Gabriel."

Lee sighed and shook his head. He could squeeze off a shot anyway. He could.

And Pa would probably gut him for it.

Missy crouched beside Pa. She quivered all over, intense and eager, like a hound dog straining on a leash. Her yellow dress was spotted with blood from that lady cop, and her eyes were bright and focused on Gabriel. She actually growled when the man in the water ran his hand down Gabriel's back.

Not worth it. Not yet. Lee relaxed his trigger finger.

* * *

The hillside directly opposite the back gate of Sweetbriar Hospital gently sloped down towards the road. Bobby had a clear view of the pond and he could see part way into the brush.

He saw enough.

He lowered the binoculars just in time to see Emmett and Clyde Fletcher move across the road towards the back gate in a running crouch, with their rifles in their hands.

They separated. Emmett went left; Clyde broke right into the bushes.

"Lord, what a mess," Bobby muttered to himself.

* * *

Dean stared at John for a lingering moment.

_My boy,_ John thought to himself. _Dean. He looks like Mary…_

That sandy blond hair was a little darker than hers had been. The eyes were what did it. They stopped John dead in his tracks. They were wrong. Not bright green, but a darker, deeper green. No recognition in them; something dark flitted just underneath the surface.

"Come here, baby," Beck murmured softly. He brushed his mouth over Dean's lips.

John's right hand tightened into a fist. He couldn't breathe. He was fairly certain that his game face was in place, but it was frozen there.

Dean blinked. Those impossibly long, dark eyelashes of his flickered once, then twice, and he settled down with his forehead against Beck's chest. Dean stared blankly at something only he could see.

_Ignore this._

That was a hard thought, one that matched how John was feeling. A part of him was made of stone, heavy and dense. If he thought about this, if he allowed himself to really feel what the sight of Dean, long lost after all this time, brought out in him, John felt he would crumble.

_Ignore this._

That would have been the smart play. Pretend none of this bothered him. Pretend it was okay. Come to work tonight, get the lay of the land, figure things out, and then get Dean out. Middle of the day like this, the odds were against them for a clean getaway.

_Ignore this..._

And leave Dean here for another eight hours, at least.

Beck put his hand on the small of Dean's back, pushed him snug and tight against him.

_Ignore this..._

And leave Dean here for eight more hours of drugs and shock therapy.

Dean didn't pull away, didn't resist as Beck's right hand moved from his buttocks up his back.

_Ignore this..._

And give Dean eight more hours of being fucked and claimed by this sonofabitch....

"Now, working here does have its perks, gentlemen," Beck announced smugly. John stared at his face and imagined Beck screaming and sobbing for his life.

John smiled a little, and Beck misread the expression.

Sam looked blank.

Beck misread that too. He supposed that Sam Wesson was thinking to himself that he wanted to be where John Doe 317 was now.

There was a part of Sam Winchester that imagined blood and murder when he looked at Nathan Beck's smug expression.

"I expect you to be smart about it. This one?" Beck looked at Dean fondly, the way a dog owner regards his pet. "He's mine. Off limits at all time." Beck looked at Sam and winked.

Dean lifted his head, stared at Sam again, then looked at Beck.

* * *

_Dean needs a haircut_, Sam thought dazedly. _First thing he's gonna do when he gets back is cut his hair. I know he will. _

The hair was all wrong. It wasn't Dean. Dean was dark blond and spiky. This was sandy blonde, bleached by the sun. Bleached by being in the sun for the last four years at least. Lost all that damn time…

The look on Dean's face sharpened, but it _still _wasn't Dean. The eyes were too dark, too wrong. Dean (or whoever was driving now) barely blinked as Beck continued to run his fingers through that long hair.

Sam recognized the look. It was the same one, the Other one that stared at Sam in that motel room that night, when he'd thought that Dean hated him for leaving him.

John's cell phone went off. Sam flinched.

* * *

Beck looked pissed, as though he resented the fact that the show he was putting on was being interrupted. He pursed his lips as he stared at John. The look was shrewd, calculating. Maybe hiring this MacGillicuddy wasn't such a good idea after all, even if Grissom did vouch for him.

"Yeah?" John drawled.

"You got company," Bobby rumbled. "Back gate. Straight down from the pond. Two trucks. Three men, two women. Saw a cop car pull up back there too."

John turned back towards Beck and smiled at him.

"Five minutes," Bobby said and then the connection went dead.

John smiled. It was cold and bright and absolutely terrifying, the accumulation of four long years of searching, come down to this very moment. "You son of a bitch. You get your damn hands off my boy."

Beck frowned. "Your boy?"

John moved towards Beck, and Sam moved with him.

* * *

Dean came _out_.

Light eyes.

Beck smiled. "Hello, Dean."

"Bastard," Dean whispered. "You keep your fucking hands off my brother!"

Dean drove his fist into Beck's face. Dean kicked out with his left foot, swept the man's feet right out from underneath him. The water churned to a froth as Dean straddled the man and struck him in the face repeatedly.

Dark eyes.

Gabriel drove his fist into Beck's face. "Just me, you hear me? Just me, not him!"

Light.

Another blow to Beck's midsection. "You sonofabitch," Dean growled. "I'll kill you…"

Beck laughed, even though his left cheekbone was broken. Blood dripped from his nose, stained the skin around his mouth and his teeth. His left eye was almost completely swollen shut. "That what this is, Dean? You mad because dear old Daddy finally sees what a worthless freak you are?"

Dean hit him again.

Dark.

Beck laughed again. He could see fine. Even with one eye. "You afraid of the competition, John? I know you are, baby. You're just my little bitch, that's all. My little drug ho---"

The other man, the older one, the dark haired one, splashed into the pond. Gabriel snarled when he reached out, put one hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, come on, we gotta go ---"

Gabriel turned from Beck and smashed the older man in the face, and that felt good, he felt like himself again. Gabriel blinked and Dean was gone, pulled down, swept away by Gabriel's rage and red murder. Dean was weak, always had been. This might have been his body before, but it was Gabriel's now. His now, his always.

He felt strong and powerful and he was going to kill them all…

The young shaggy one came up from behind and wrapped his arms around him. "Dean! Dean, don't ---"

"That's not my damn name!" Gabriel bellowed. He bucked and jerked and nearly threw him off.

Close enough only counts in horsehoes.

Beck rose up from the water. There was murder in his one good eye, and Gabriel didn't care. Gabe could kiss those red pills goodbye, he knew he could. They were going to drag him back into Sweetbriar and drug him and shock him and beat the hell out of him, and he didn't care. For the first time in six months he didn't care.

He was a Bender, and he'd finally gotten his head on straight. Finally, after all this time. He was a Bender, and_ that_ was his place in the world. _I hunt you bastards,_ Gabriel thought fiercely, as he struggled against the one who held him. _I take what I want, when I want_.

Gabe smiled a little as he watched the father get up again. Dean's father. Huh. Beck was closer to him, though. Gabriel bared his teeth at him, even as Beck's right hand curled up into a fist.

The crack of the gunshot echoed in the clearing, ruffled the leaves on the trees.

Beck jerked backwards. Blood spurted from this hole that suddenly appeared in the meaty part of his right shoulder.

Gabriel didn't get it for a brief moment.

The older man ducked down, and Gabriel suddenly understood as the younger one holding him, did the same, pulled him deeper down into the water.

* * *

"Seems to me you boys have a problem here," This voice called out from the bushes straight ahead. The voice was deep and gravelly. Sam could imagine the eyes in that face: cold, flinty and merciless.

_You're the bastard who took Dean, all those years ago, _Sam thought to himself._ It was you. You came in the night and you took my brother. You took him and twisted him all up…_He tilted his head back so that his nose cleared the water, but he still gagged a little as it tried to surge into his nose and mouth. He could feel the bottom of the pond with his feet. He bent his knees a little.

"Abraham." Dean laughed. He strained against Sam's arms, but he couldn't break the hold. Sam didn't know whether to thank the drugs that still must have been in Dean's system, or the fading of the adrenaline rush.

"You stick your heads up, we'll blow them off, but there's no need for all that. All we want is what's ours. You let him come home to his family, and we'll be on our way. We'll leave you be, let you live. That boy belongs to us. "

John chuckled. Sam stared at his father as though he'd lost his freaking mind. "How fucking stupid do you think we are?" John called out. "We're _his _family, you bastard!"

"Not any more. You lost him. You lost him four years ago. We took him in. Made a place for him." Sam could hear the smile in this Abraham's voice. "So you're his daddy, huh? Thought so. You got to move on, fella. His name's Gabriel now. You must not have been living right, 'cause if you were you wouldn't have lost him in the first place."

Dean turned his head just enough to look at Sam. That sly smirk on his face, malicious and cheerful, was terrible to see.

The look Sam gave him was curiously blank. _You're not Dean. Dean's asleep in there. Hold on, dude, Please. Hold on._

Dean's eyes narrowed.

John spat water out of his mouth and shook his head. "Hold him, Sam."

Sam nodded. He'd hold onto Dean until hell froze over, and beyond.

Nathan Beck floated on his back nearby. His eyes were closed, but it was hard to tell whether he was alive or dead.

* * *

"Gabriel?"

Gabriel turned in the direction of the voice.

_Her_ voice.

He turned his head as much as he could. He spat water out of his mouth, snorted it out of his nose. The shaggy bastard behind him had a tight grip, but Gabriel turned towards the sound just the same.

Missy stood there, right out in the open. Gabriel's eyes widened at the sight of that bright yellow dress of hers. It was spotted with blood.

"No," he whispered out loud. "Please, no…"

He couldn't see any bruises, or cuts. Aside from the blood, she looked beautiful. Bright and clean, just like she'd looked that last night he saw her, six months, a lifetime ago.

"I missed you, Gabe."

"Missy," Gabriel breathed.

"I knew that God would bring you back to me. I did." There was no one else in the world right then. Dark green eyes locked onto brown eyes. Gabriel ignored everything else, and so did she.

Missy put her right hand out, palm up. Her left hand was behind her back. She was ambidextrous. Gabriel knew that.

"Come home with me, Gabriel," Missy said softly. "Please."

Gabriel jerked his head backwards in a head butt. It was a good solid hit. He saw stars for a brief moment, but he heard more than felt the solid thunk of his skull against jawbone. The grip around his chest and arms loosened and he turned in the water, lunged for the shore, knowing full well the boy and the father would follow him.

Then Missy could carve them up.

Gabe could see it. He _wanted_ to see it. The shocked look on the tall boy's face, as his blood flew up into the air, bright red and red. Gabriel could see the glazed look in the father's eyes as Missy dug his heart out of his chest.

One foot away. Then two.

Things went wrong.

Another shot rang out, but it came in a different direction, off to the side. Missy ducked, and then there was another, from the opposite side.

Something came roaring through the trees. Engine noise, a heavy motor, turning and revving itself up, and for a second Gabriel thought it was the truck, that's right, Pa had gotten the truck and he was going to bull his way through, right up to the pond.

He was wrong.

It wasn't the truck, it was a car, an old one, dull blue, with a large, finely tuned engine under the hood, from the sound of it. The rear end fishtailed as it ran over the line of bushes, and for a brief moment Gabriel saw Pa as he raised up and dived out of the way. Lee and Jerry were already on the ground as the car sped past.

Fucking cowards.

"No!" Missy screamed, and her eyes flashed as she pulled her right hand out behind her back. She slashed at the air, and the man behind the wheel of the old car ignored her. He looked a little like Pa, trucker's cap, flannel shirt and all, but he wasn't.

Gabriel smirked a little to himself as he threw himself forward. He heard splashing in the water behind him. Someone's fingers brushed against his back, then his ankles. They were almost on him.

The gunfire continued. It kept Pa, Lee and Jerry down. They were the targets, so apparently whoever this was thought they were the bigger threat.

They didn't know Missy.

She ran towards him in a crouch. She was parallel to the car now, right next to the driver's side.

Gabe was knee deep in thick wet mud. Wet grass slipped and slid between his fingers, his nose filled with the smell of exhaust from the car's engine.

The driver in the car opened the car door in a snap. Missy turned sideways to face him and jsut as she did the door hit her with a solid thump, knocked her sideways off her feet.

Gabriel made a deep throated sound that was somewhere between a moan and a growl.

He was only a few feet away from the car's grill. The man in the car stared him right in the eyes, steady and unwavering. He wasn't afraid.

Gabe thought he sure in the hell should have been.

Trucker's Cap was a dead man. Gabe was going to wring his neck, and those other two were next. He was going to kill them with his bare hands and piss on their corpses.

_No._

That one word filled Gabriel's head, made his muscles shake and his knees buckle as he tried to lift himself out of the mud. Every muscle in Gabriel's body cramped up, hard and tight. He couldn't breathe. He was caught fast, frozen inside the flesh he'd taken over for the last four years.

_You're not hurting my family. _Dean whispered inside Gabriel's head._ You're not._

_Can't do this. You can't…_

_Hell I can't._

Dean held Gabriel tight and dragged him down into the black.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Yep. That's it for now. Anyone who's read my stories knows I'm evil and I love cliffies. So here ya go. Next post will be next Monday. I believe that extreme Gabriel/Dean, John and Sam angst deserves a chapter all by itself. Regular posting schedule from now on is still Monday and Friday. Hope everyone has a safe and Merry Christmas.


	17. negative space

_**A/N:**_ Much thanks to SciFiNutTx and The Kritty. SciFiNutTx answered my question as to why the Benders didn't have any vengeful spirits hanging around. The Kritty reminded me to emphasize that Dean's appearance after all these years (particularly his hair) would seem strange to Sam and John after four years.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 17 – negative space **_

Bobby knew a trick or two.

The cabin was well off the beaten path, way out in the middle of nowhere. Dusk in another hour. The Chevelle sat in the shed next to the house. Bobby set one of the shotguns up inside.

A long thin wire led from the trigger to the door handle. One pull was all it would take.

It was a change from the usual routine of laying down thick salt lines all the doors and windows. What was after them now was people.

Just people.

Inside the cabin Dean Winchester's unconscious body was bound, wrists and ankles, to that big heavy wooden chair that sat in the middle room.

Sam stared at his brother, with that miserable, slightly twitchy expression that John had become familiar with in the last few days. John finished knotting the ropes around Dean's right wrist, then stepped back. Sam's expression sharpened. He was all business now.

The man in the chair took a deep breath, like a diver breathing on his own after being submerged for a time, He blinked. His head drooped forward a little more, then he sat back and tossed his head a little to get his long hair out of his eyeline. His expression hardened as he stared down at the clothes they'd dressed him in. Black long-sleeved t shirt, worn blue jeans and workboots. Dean's clothes, from four years ago. They were actually a little baggy on him through the ass and the shoulders. Dean had lost some weight and muscle definition through the arms and thighs.

Gabriel sneered.

He lifted his head. That green gaze of his flowed over first John and then Sam like dark water. "Well well. Hello,_ Papa_. _Sammy_," Gabriel purred mockingly. He shook his head in disgust. "No wonder he wanted to get the hell away from you two."

Sam straightened up. He leaned forward, stared intently at Gabriel's face.

"What the hell you looking at?" Gabriel growled. "You tryin' to get all warm and fuzzy with me, boy?

"I'm looking at my brother," Sam said calmly. He shrugged carelessly. "You? You're _nothing_."

"Yeah?" Gabriel's smirk widened. "Is that a fact? I'm nothing, huh? Your brother's gone, because of me. He's_ not_ coming back."

Sam shook his head. "You're lying."

"Am I? Then why isn't he talking to you right now? He's gone. Gone for good."

The inflection of the voice was even lower, rougher than Dean's normal growl. It was almost feral. That was just as jarring as the long, sandy blond hair and the fact that his clothes didn't fit him quite right anymore.

Sam smiled. He untensed; John could see it. "I've faced down demons more badass than you, _Casper_."

Gabriel jerked back with a growl. "Casper?" He looked a little paler than usual. He looked down at his hands, stared hard at his fingers as he tried to force them to stop shaking. He wasn't very successful.

They were double teaming him, and the damn fool didn't appear to notice. Ignoring this bastard, discounting him, threw him off balance. Gabriel apparently wasn't used to that. That was good to know. Dean would have told them both to go to hell and called it a day. John could almost forget that this was Dean's body, that his eldest son was caged somewhere inside his own body.

John could _almost_ forget that.

Sam was relentless, seemingly unconcerned. He smirked right back at Gabriel. "You were on a roll back there at the pond. And then, all of a sudden, you ran out of gas, didn't you? That's because Dean stopped you." Sam nodded. "_My brother stopped you cold. _You've been out for hours. We even changed your clothes, dumbass. We tied you up in that chair. So don't get too comfortable, _Gabe,"_ Sam's voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. "Your expiration date's just about up."

"No, it isn't," Gabriel whispered fiercely. He leaned over, his shoulders hunched up almost to his ears.

_He's trying to stop shaking,_ Sam thought. _He needs his meds._

Gabriel stayed that way for a long moment, then he leaned back against the chair.

"My family's coming for me." Twisting his wrists against the ropes was a constant motion now, the action of a trapped animal trying to escape. "And _you're_ dead men." His eyes snapped from one man to the other. "Every last damn one'a you."

"Yeah. Right. " John tried not to yawn. "So you wanna tell us where home is? I mean home for the last four years? Might wanna pay your folks a little visit."

Gabriel scoffed. "You're just as stupid as you look."

"That stings." John said mildly.

Gabriel spat in John's face. John didn't even blink. A small streak of saliva ran down John's left cheekbone. He wiped it off, then quirked an eyebrow as he rubbed his hand dry on the left thigh of his jeans. "That the _best_ you can do? Come _on_, Gabriel."

Sam was the target now. "Don't know why _your_ sorry ass is even here. You always run, boy. You left your family, ran off to school and pretended you were normal. You always leave him. You both do. My family took Dean in, cared for him."

"Bullshit," John growled. He wanted to slap the hell out of this bastard, slap that smirk right off that face.

_Dean's_ face.

John stilled himself.

John remembered the way Dean's body looked as they dressed him. The scars on the left side of his body, on his arm and leg. That large dent in Dean's side, right over his left hip. Oh, they took him in, all right. Looked like they'd slammed into him with a car or truck, and in some perverse way that made John feel better. It was a hell of a thing, but it did.

Dean hadn't gone quietly.

Gabriel looked down at his wrists. He twisted them against the ropes and smiled, slyly.

"Did you get a thrill when you stripped me down and tied me up, Daddy? Huh? I can see why Dean thought you were the one fucking him, instead of Beck. Maybe that's what Dean _really_ wants. Maybe that's what _you _want? Tell you what, Papa. You untie me and I'll be nice to you. I'll be your good little boy," Gabriel rumbled softly. "How's _that_?"

John laughed. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, sweetheart, but I'm _really_ gonna enjoy getting rid of you."

"You really wanna know what Dean's been up to for the last four years?" The smile on Gabriel's face meant that he was all too willing to share that bit of news. That also meant the news was unpleasant.

"Enlighten us."John shrugged carelessly. He'd already told Sam what Missouri said.

"Oh, I don't think you really wanna hear this, Daddy." Gabriel tilted his head to one side. "My family hunts humans. We hunt 'em for sport, and we hunt 'em for food. Me and Dean? Well. We've eaten white meat. Dark meat. Killed a lot of people these last four years. Men. Women. Kids." Gabe's tone was casual, indifferent, as if he was reading a grocery list. He looked Sam in the eyes and smiled. "And you know what? Dean could have stopped me a long time ago if he wanted to."

"You're a damned liar," Sam snapped.

"Am I? Well, you got your thoughts on the matter." Gabriel smirked proudly at Sam, then John. "Hell of a thing, Daddy. You couldn't protect your woman. Or your kids. Pathetic."

Gabe's left ankle trembled and shook against the ropes. The motion was small at first, then increased until his entire left leg nearly vibrated.

"Damn it," Gabriel whispered to himself.

"You wanna talk about pathetic? That's you. Next few days are gonna get pretty lively for _you_, princess," John drawled lazily. All those drugs you took at Sweetbriar? You're going cold turkey."

Bobby Singer appeared in the doorway behind the Winchesters. Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "Gonna kill you for what you did to Missy, old man."

"I'm shaking in my boots," Bobby huffed. "John? Can I see you for a moment?"

"Sure."

John glanced at Sam, and the younger man nodded. "I'm good."

Gabriel shuddered. His chest hitched with each breath he took. He stared blankly into space, couldn't hide the way his body was reacting. He needed his meds now, and that was exactly what he wasn't going to get. This was only the beginning.

Sam glanced down at his right hand.

_Soon, Samuel. Very soon now._

Lim's scars over his left hipbone twinged a little, thrummed his nerve endings like fingers lanquidly stroking guitar strings, one at a time.

_Such a beautiful, broken child. I shall leave some for later._

Sam stared at the confused look on Gabriel's face, and he had to remind himself: Gabriel, _not_ Dean.

* * *

"How's Sam?" Bobby nodded.

"Good. He's solid."

"Well? You get anything useful out of our little playmate in there?"

"Usual stuff. Damn spirits mouth off just as much as demons do."

Bobby's eye roll was just as classic as Dean's on a good day. "You do know about ectoplasm, right?"

John seemed puzzled, then slightly offended. "Not my first time at the rodeo, Singer. Angry spirits leave a residue, sometimes on their surroundings."

"Okay. I'm willing to bet that same residue affects their victims somehow, when they possess a human body. This family of his, I don't think they had to tie Dean down, or drug him. If Dean came out during the past four years, chances are pretty good he would have been disoriented, unable to fight back. Gabriel's the stronger one, so he assumed control again. You know we need to find out what's keeping that bastard here, and then burn it."

"I was thinking…"

"That's not good," Bobby snarked.

The look John gave Bobby was pointed, but there was no real heat behind it. "Maybe we can track his family down, find out where they live. Burn the place down to the ground. That ought to do it."

"What if he's buried somewhere on the property, and not in the house?"

"Salt and burn the earth. All of it," John said simply. It was a statement of fact.

"You are one crazy sonofabitch."

John's anger finally bubbled up to the surface. He pointed at the room behind them. "That…that…_thing_ has been inside Dean for the last four years. I'm getting my boy back, safe and sound, and every sonofabitch who ever laid a hand on him wrong is gonna pay for what they did to him."

"Speaking of which, I'm surprised you didn't drag Beck out here, alive or dead."

John looked thoughtful. "We had to haul ass, remember? Either way, I'll see him later."

"Winchester, you're not serious."

"Yeah. Yeah, I _am_. You call that Barnes woman yet?"

"Pam?" Bobby sighed. "Yeah. She and her group have exorcised a spirit before. Dean will probably have to wear protective amulets for the rest of his life so that the bastard can't jump back in." Bobby sighed. He raised his right hand, thumped his middle three fingers against his chest, right on the space over his heart. "I was thinking of a tattoo. Right here."

John actually smiled._ That_ was a little frightening. "That'll work. Good."

His cell went off then. The smile on John's face faded a little as he put the device to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"This is Clyde Fletcher. Me and Emmett got your truck off the parking lot at Sweetbriar, Mr. Winchester. We're coming in."

"No, you're not. This isn't your fight. I want you boys to get to a motel, hole up there, and call me in a day or so."

"Hell this isn't our fight," Clyde said stubbornly. "My family pays our debts."

"You already have."

"Sir. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but we ain't going anywhere until this is over with."

"You show up here, and chances are pretty good that those bastards will follow you right in. You show up here and I will kick your asses myself."

Clyde huffed noisily.

"Do what I said, all right? Watch yourselves. Make sure they don't track you. Hole up, and lay low. You hear me? Clyde?"

Another exasperated exhale of breath. Then: "Yes sir."

John cut the connection. "Damn kids."

* * *

…_not again…not again... _

"A-Abr'ham…no…pl-please…" Gabriel pleaded. "I didn't…didn't touch her…"

He was down on the cold ground again. Abraham looked angry.

"…never did…why you doin' this to me, huh? I didn't…didn't…"

Abraham lifted the shotgun up, and it wasn't Abraham anymore. It was that shaggy haired boy, that Sam, and he was mad about his brother.

"…no…damn you…leav' me alone…leav' me alone…"

The boy changed into the father, dark and angry, and Gabriel watched as his finger tightened, then pulled the trigger.

* * *

Gabriel jerked back hard against the chair. His eyes snapped open. He stared directly at Sam, eyes wide and shocked. They were still the same dark green, but glazed over, too bright.

"After…after you gunned me down…never left." Gabriel slurred. "…never left…"

"Why couldn't you leave, Gabriel?" Sam said quietly. He could still hear John and Bobby in the room behind him. Mostly John. Sounded like he was on the phone.

Gabriel shook his head as he stared at Sam. "Couldn't. Saw the light…didn't _wanna _go…"

Sam waited. It was obvious Gabriel thought he was someone else, probably that Abraham bastard.

"You remember…the stuff Pa taught us? The hoodoo marks and signs?" Gabriel's voice trembled, as if he wasn't sure that "Abraham" would answer him.

Sam nodded.

"Didn't bother me none. Kept the others quiet." Another bark of laughter, wild and somewhat hysterical. "They were 'fraid of me, ya know that?"

"Kept who quiet, Gabe?"

"The spirits. The ones we hunted." Gabriel scowled. "Why don't you remember that?"

"Just needed remindin'. Tell me about the boy. That Dean."

"Him." Gabriel snorted. "Way Missy tells it, he was a gift. First night I saw him…you saw it too, right? Looked just…just like me. Missy saw. She knew. Told me later it was all meant. God's word to her." Gabriel looked down at his hands, and he couldn't understand why he couldn't raise them up. He finally stopped trying and the smile he gave Sam was weak and tired.

"Missy likes to keep things. Teeth. Bones and stuff. She makes wind chimes out of 'em." Gabriel laughed. "Missy really likes them." His moods slipped and shifted. Sam had the feeling that whatever this was wouldn't last. "Why am I telling you this? How come you don't remember this yourself?"

"Gabriel, what's keeping you here?"

"Missy," Gabriel wheezed. "Gonna be mad at me for leaving."

"What's Missy got of yours?"

"Look in her damn Bible, will you!" Gabriel snarled hoarsely. He swayed back and forth in the chair.

_Crap,_ Sam thought. _When was the last time Dean had something to drink? _He walked past Gabriel into the kitchen. A moment later Gabriel licked his chapped lips, gazed dazedly at the uncapped water bottle Sam had in his hand.

"Don't want any. Get the hell away from me with that."

Sam lifted the bottle towards Gabe's lips. He wouldn't let Dean suffer because of this bastard.

_"Said I don't want it!"_ Gabriel jerked sideways in the chair, and Sam knew that the moment was over.

Gabriel laughed crazily. Oddly enough, it reminded Sam of a hyena's laugh, dark, wild and insane. "This thing we got? It goes both ways. Dean's just too damn stupid to realize it yet. I know a little 'bout your family. The way you lived after your momma died. People called your daddy crazy. Looked at you boys like you were trash. Am I right about that?"

Sam didn't answer.

"That kinda thing wears on a man after a while, even a big damn hero like your brother. You really think he doesn't have a dark side? He does. He didn't stop me before, when we hunted and killed those people. He didn't _want_ to."

"You're lying. Dean wouldn't ---"

"He wouldn't? He had a lifetime of being spit on by the same people he tried to save. He wanted to dish out some of the pain, boy." Gabriel was positively gleeful. "He's a Bender, all right. Right down to his core. And what the hell do you _care_, anyway? You were embarrassed by him. You didn't 'preciate him when you had him around, and now you're all torn up about him being gone for four years?" Gabriel snorted in disgust.

Sam's right hand balled into a fist.

Gabriel chuckled dryly. The laugh hitched in his throat, turned into a dry, rasping cough. "Go ahead," he grated. "Hit me."

"You son of a bitch," Sam whispered.

"That's right, hit me." Gabriel rasped. "Hit me, 'cause then Dean will exactly how you feel about him. He's the real reason you left for school. Wasn't because you wanted normal, was it, Sammy boy? You couldn't measure up to big brother, and you hated him for it."

"No. You're wrong." Sam put the water bottle on the table behind him.

It was time.

"I've done things these past few years." Sam laughed, a mixture of sadness and fondness. "I know I wouldn't have done them if Dean was around. "

Gabe's eyes widened, startled, at the sudden change in Sam. He could deal with rage and hate. That was easy? This? This was something else.

Sam looked down at his right palm. His lifeline looked a lot different now, like the starburst of jagged scars Lim carved into his hipbone. "Dean can hate me for that. He can. I can't take you out of him. I wish I could, but I can't. But what I can do is make his pain mine. Make Dean more comfortable, not you. I love my brother. I love him enough that I don't care if he hates me for what I'm about to do."

"Get the hell away from me, you freak ---"

Sam placed his right palm on Gabriel's chest.

He could feel it all, the quick and frantic pace of Dean's heart beat, like a horse stung repeatedly by the whip. Sam breathed, and his own heart beat sped up. He staggered a little as pain, sharp as an icepick, lanced into his own left hip.

Sam forced himself to breathe, deeply, slowly, even as his own lungs suddenly labored to pull in air. He could absorb only so much, but he took in what he could, pulled it out of Dean's body.

It was for Dean and Dean's body, not this loathsome sonofabitch who'd taken over for the last four years. Sam stared into Gabriel's eyes, and he saw the exact moment when everything changed, at least for a while.

Gabriel's eyes lightened.

Sam blinked.

The eyes staring back at him were bright green and aware. They were the mirrors to the soul Sam had searched for the past four years.

"Sam," Dean whispered sadly, "what the hell are you doing?"

* * *

Next post Friday.


	18. the good son

_**Chapter 18 – the good son**_

_So sweet_, Lim whispered softly. It sat in the shadows just one step away from reality, miles away from the cabin. The demon threw his head back, rocked back and forth as raw emotions flooded over him, made his slick grey skin darken to purple and ripple with pleasure.

_Ah, Samuel, I am so very glad you found your brother…_

_

* * *

_"Pain," Sam heard himself murmur. "I give it gladly, now and later."

Green eyes. They were dazed, but bright green, not that darker color. Definitely, positively _Dean_.

Thank…God. Well, that was wrong. God didn't have a damn thing to do with this, but Sam couldn't think of anything else. The strain was murderous.

"_Porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit..."_

The veins in his arm, from his hand all the way up to his shoulder, were raised up, rock hard, and distended. Pressure built up inside Sam's head, filled his eardrums.

"_There is one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain..."_

His muscles ached, clenched tight from the effort. The air around Sam vibrated with unseen tension; inside he felt light and jittery. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a manic grin, and on some level he knew that wasn't right. His mouth stretched wide, filled with way too many teeth, but he couldn't help himself.

Sam couldn't identify what he was feeling at first, and then it hit him.

He was happy.

_He tastes so good, Samuel. _

Dean's eyes widened. A part of Sam, oddly detached from all of this, noticed the look (_afraidhe'safraidofme_) and that thought was promptly pushed deep down, swamped by the rising tide of Sam's excitement.

_Dean's back. He's here, and I'm helping him. _

"Don't worry, Dean. Don't worry. I got you." Sam whispered. "I got you…"

_Such a handsome, broken child. _

"Sam…no…" Dean shook his head, pushed himself back into the chair. There wasn't anywhere else for him to go, but he did it anyway.

_Do you know how much your brother really loves you, beauty?_

"I can heal you," Sam murmured. "I can do this…" He pressed his hand even flatter against Dean's skin, felt his brother's chest hitch a little with the effort as he hooked his fingers into claws. Sam's fingernails dug into Dean's black t shirt. Five crescent shaped marks marked Dean's skin.

"…no…"

Dean's heart beat faster: Sam could feel it. Stronger.

"…get off me…"

Working. This was working.

It was all he'd thought about in the hours since Dean had come back. It was all he ever wanted to do for the last four years. Mom was taken from him, and he was too little to even remember what she looked like. Jess was taken, and he couldn't stop it. And now Dean was back, after all these years.

"…get the hell off me…"

"I can make you feel better…" Sam was babbling now, but he didn't care. "Take your pain from you."

Dean was _here_. He was _back_.

"…stop…Sam…"

And maybe, with a little more effort, maybe he could pull that bastard Gabriel out too.

"…yuh…" Dean gasped. The back of his head thumped against the high wooden back of the chair. "…you're…killin'…me…"

Sam chuckled. "No, I'm not."

Dean stared at Sam so hard it seemed he was looking right through him. It was weird and awkward, and Dean didn't blink. Sam didn't dare. Gabriel could come roaring back in a heartbeat.

"Sam?"

That sounded like Dad. Dad didn't do this. Dad couldn't do this. All Dad could do was disappear during the night. He came back, all right, because he needed Sam. He nknew he couldn't do this without Sam.

"Sam? What the hell are you doing?"

Bobby. He was worthless too.

Dean blinked then, and Sam was relieved when his eyes stayed bright green.

…_killing him…_

Dean's heart thumped against the underside of Sam's palm, but the beat was slower now. Sounded like a kid tossing a tennis ball against a brick wall.

_I'm killing…_

Dean slumped forward. His eyes closed, his eyelashes impossibly long and dark against his the freckles of his skin. That long hair of his formed a curtain around his face. That was Gabriel's hair. Not Dean's.

"Christo!" John roared.

None of that mattered. Sam laughed. He was going to pull Gabriel out, _all _the way out. He was going to watch as the bastard shriveled up and crumbled to dust in his hands. Then it was all gonna be okay, Dean could get a haircut and they could go back to being brothers, just like they were before. Sam opened his mouth to tell Dean it was okay, that he shouldn't look so scared.

Dad was there, right beside him, and so was Bobby, and they were going to spoil this, Sam knew they were. John tried to knock Sam's hand off Dean's chest, and Bobby was pulling at him, yelling. He hadn't done anything for them to yell at him like that. He was doing Dean some good. They hadn't.

Sam raised his head, meant to look at John and tell him so, and as just as he did John raised his fist.

That was the last thing Sam remembered seeing for a while.

* * *

Lim howled.

The connection was broken. He was cut off, too soon. Release came too quickly, stuttered through his body in an awkward sideways jerk as he crouched there and clawed at the shadows around him.

When he opened his eyes he could taste Dean on his tongue. Samuel provided the link the moment he touched that freckled skin. It was a simple matter to go behind those wide green eyes and show the eldest exactly how much his younger brother loved him.

There would be more. Lim was sure of it. Samuel's debt to him was not completed. It would be, one way or another. Samuel Winchester had gained a dark reputation in the last four years, all in the name of his long lost brother. He was also known for paying his debts in full.

The pain in both brothers was exquisite, unusually potent in ones so young. Samuel was a treasure, and the other brother, that Dean, was more than Lim could have hoped for. Ah, the life that one had led for the last four years! So much death, effortless and gleeful, and he was dimly aware of his part in most of it. His anger towards Samuel was surprising, but Lim had learned all these years that humans nearly always behaved in unexpected ways.

That made feeding off them so pleasureable.

There was a feast inside each and every human, and this was the best meal Lim had in years.

* * *

_Christ Almighty,_ John thought to himself. _What a fucking mess._

The blond man in the chair stirred a little. He wasn't even fully conscious, but he leaned back in the chair, twisted his wrists against the ropes. John was sure that if he was conscious he would probably lean down and try to gnaw at the ropes with his teeth.

He wasn't a praying man. Not even over in 'Nam. You found out what your enemy's weakenesses were and you put him down permanently with appropriate force. You did the best you could each and every damn day and hoped for the best.

God works in mysterious ways, huh? John liked Missouri, but if he ever got face to face with her God, John supposed he would probably pistol whip the bastard and demand some answers.

Dean coming back fucked up was a given. But Sam?

Bobby was with Sam now; they'd tied him down to the bed in the other room. John couldn't deal with him now, and if that sounded cold blooded then, so be it. Dean was the whole point of them being out here.

John waited.

Sam had regained consciousness at the last moment. That wild glint in his eyes unnerved John; he had never seen his youngest son look like that. "I did it for Dean, Dad. I was helping him." That's what he said over and over again.

The thing was, John believed him.

When the wounds ran so raw and deep, and every waking day becomes unbearable, a person starts thinking about deals and ways to get back what they'd lost. If that was what happened, he couldn't fault the boy. It was a hazard of the line of work they were in.

The crossroads at Lloyd's Bar seemed like an option for John at one time. That phone call from Missouri stopped him in his tracks and turned around.

_Mysterious ways, my ass._

John watched and waited. Dean or Gabriel lifted his head, and those ridiculously long eyelashes blinked open.

_Green,_ John thought. _Better be green…_

"D-Dad…" Dean breathed.

Well. Maybe he wouldn't pistol whip Him after all.

John smiled. "Hey, kiddo." He picked the water bottle off the table nearby, unscrewed the cap and leaned down.

Dean stared at him. "Are you…"

"Am I what?"

"Are you real?" The whisper was soft and hesitant, as though Dean was uncertain what the answer would be.

"Yeah. Yeah I am," John muttered softly.

"I need a haircut." Dean whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "Damn hair gets in my eyes."

John nodded. Dean flinched, just a little, as John raised his hand and very slowly, very gently pulled Dean's hair away from his face.

It was awkward as hell. Dean dropped his eyes, stared at his knees again.

"Son, it's okay." John said quietly.

Dean didn't look convinced. John knew his son. Never mind what he'd gone through the last four years, never mind the drugs and the effect of being possessed by a spirit had on him. John knew Dean, and he knew Dean was ashamed.

Ashamed of being seen like this, with that long blonde hair that didn't suit him, ashamed that his clothes didn't fit him like they used to. Ashamed of not being of control of his own body. Being tied up in that chair was a constant reminder, and there was nothing they could do about it now.

John raised the bottle to Dean's lips, tilted it back just enough. "Easy now. Small sips. Don't rush."

Dean closed his eyes as he drank. John stared at his son's face, at the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the paleness of his skin. After all this time he'd dreamed of being able to be this close. That moment was here now, and it still wasn't over yet.

"Where's…where's Sam?"

"In the other room with Bobby." There was no need to mention that Sam was tied up and Bobby was guarding him. "Dean," John said slowly. "Do you remember what happened when Sam was here?"

Dean's face blanked. He stared down at the floor and very pointedly refused to look John in the eyes. That told John all he needed to know: _I remember it. I remember it all._

"I fucked it up. Fucked everything up," Dean said simply. It wasn't a question, to Dean it was a fact. It was better to turn attention to some perceived misdeed of his; even now, after all this, he wouldn't let Sam bear any blame. The words came out in a rush that twisted John's insides. "They were just…just people. I should have been able to fight. Dad, 'm…'m sorry. Sorry this happened. Sorry I screwed up."

"Dean, it's okay."

"They were people. Just people." Dean shook his head.

John sniffed noisily.

Dean stopped and peered at John owlishly. "Why's…why's your…face wet?"

"I'm just…glad to see you, that's all." John hesitated. "I missed you, bud. I did."

Dean looked wary.

"I never stopped looking for you, Dean. I want you to know that. I love you, son."

Dean's eyes narrowed skeptically. He quirked an eyebrow, and except for the hair, he looked almost like his old self. "Is this really you talking?"

"Yeah. Maybe I don't tell you as much as I should, but I do." John shrugged. "This isn't...this isn't the life I wanted for you, or for Sam."

"Christo," Dean whispered.

John laughed.

* * *

"He told us not to come back here," Clyde Fletcher whispered. "Mr. Winchester is going to be pissed."

They sat in the darkened truck and stared at the cabin nestled in the clearing below. The place was miles away from the highway, and the back roads were like a maze, especially at night.

Brother Emmett huffed. "Didn't you say it yourself that they needed all the help they could get?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Yeah, they'll be pissed, at first, but they need us here." Emmett picked up the shotgun on the floor down next to his seat. "We weren't followed. I know we weren't, not the way you drive."

Emmett had just enough time to see a flash of something yellow on the other side of Clyde's open window. Clyde coughed, and there was suddenly so much blood, spraying out of his mouth, splashing on the steering wheel and the dashboard. It gushed like a river out of that hole in his throat. Clyde turned towards his brother, eyes wide and staring helplessly, as he clawed at his throat and his hands and clothes ran red with blood.

That young girl in the bloody yellow dress stood there in the moonlight. She was smiling, a big old grin from ear to ear.

Emmett raised the shotgun up just as his door flew open. Fingers hooked his jacket collar and he went flying through the air. When he hit the ground on his back he saw silver in the air above him.

_Knife_, Emmett thought, and he raised both hands to stop it. At least, he tried to raise his hands. He was too slow.

Something kept hitting him in the chest and stomach. It didn't hurt, and for a brief moment Emmett thought that maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this dude was hitting him with his hand instead. He looked up into the eyes of the old man who crouched over him. They were cold and merciless, and they were the last thing Emmett Fletcher saw in this life.

Dying didn't hurt either. That was a surprise too.

Abraham Bender got to his feet, slowly. The upper half of his body was covered in blood, dark and slick. He wiped the knife blade clean on the dead boy's trousers and stood up.

Missy took another swipe at the dead boy sitting behind the wheel of that big black truck. She laid his cheek open with the edge of her knife and thought about what she'd do when she met up with that man in the blue car, the one with the trucker's cap who'd hit her with the door and helped the others take Gabriel away.

She really wanted to see _him_ again.

"Come on now, Missy," Pa rumbled. "We gotta go get Gabriel."

Missy skipped around the front of that big black truck. She was happy.

* * *

Next post Saturday.


	19. a rock and a hard place

_**A/N:**_ Real life sucks. I'm back.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 19 – a rock and a hard place**_

Dean stared wearily at his hands. They were ice cold; he could barely feel the ropes against his skin. He struggled to remember what it was like to be the only one in his body, and like everything else lately, that wasn't going too well, either. Some of the scars belonged to him; some didn't.

Jesus, he felt like a friggin' sheepdog now. Damn hair got in his eyes no matter what he did. Just another reminder that he hadn't been in control for the past four years. He knew the curve of every muscle underneath his skin. He'd had this body all his life, he'd enjoyed it, pushed it to its limits and then some. His body, his life.

Not any more.

Left knuckle.

_Baltimore, Maryland. Bar brawl. _Dean thought. _Got tagged by that biker with his knife._ _Happened right after Sam left for Stanford. _

That slash mark on his left arm was on the diagonal, a raised welt of healed skin about five inches long.

_Broken window glass. Fugly hunt. Dixson, Indiana. Dad stitched him right up. _

Small cut on the pad of his thumb, several more on the web of his right hand.

_The knife was heavy and sharp, and the bitch wouldn't stay still. Gabe hit bone when he stabbed her. He kept right on stabbing her. _

Ring finger, right hand.

_Nice and shiny, ain't they?_

_Missy held up the amulet around her neck. Bronze and silver. His ring was there too, strung on the black leather cord. She always had this wild look in her eyes, like she wanted to cut and carve on him with her knives while she told him she loved him. _

_You want 'em back, Gabe?_

They belonged to her now. Just another thing that was taken away, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. That large silver washer ring shone brightly in Dean's memory, and then was gone, faded out just like that thin band of untanned skin on his ring finger.

Slash marks, two on his lower right arm, another one on the back of his right hand.

_That trucker almost got away. Almost. _

Needle marks in the insides of both elbows.

_Time for your happy juice, freak. Hope this hurts._

The skin at his neck prickled with the memory of teeth nipping at his skin.

_Good boy, John, you're the one I want, always._

Fingers ghosted down his bruised hipbones.

_You're not the one I want, Dean. _

Dean gagged at the sour, slick taste of rubber in his mouth.

_This is Dr. Ephraim Weddington. The date is 8-15-2009, time is 9:37AM. __Documenting the first electroshock procedure performed on patient 87356317, otherwise known as John Doe 317…_

His heels ached as they drummed uselessly against the gurney. White bees and blinding light blazed through his head.

"_Glad to have you back, brother."Abraham hugged him, tight and fierce. Dean's face was wet with tears. He was home. He was out at last. _

_Do you know how much your brother loves you, beauty?_

_Stop it,_ Dean told himself. _Damn you, stop it._

Dean hunched forward in the chair, shifted his weight over to his right. He tried to gain some relief from that cramp in his left hip. A dull ache smoldered deep inside the long muscles from his hip through his thigh. He really needed to stretch, but there was no way that Bobby or Dad was going to untie that ankle.

* * *

Missy crouched in the darkness next to Abraham. She'd been on enough hunts, but she couldn't stay calm for long though, and he knew it. Gabriel was in that damn cabin, fifty yards away, but there was a problem. The underbrush surrounding the place had been set up with trip wires and booby traps. Five minutes ago Jerry had narrowly missed stepping right into this large steel bear trap. Where there was one, there were others. Whoever set this up knew their stuff.

Lee and Jerry were on the left. Lee had his rifle, and Jerry carried the one he took out of that big black truck.

"I want that old man," Missy whispered. "I want to see him covered in blood. I want to hear him scream." She rubbed at the goose egg on her forehead. "I want him and those other two to die slow and beg for it."

"I know you do. We got to be smart about this, girl. We're gettin' Gabriel back. Alive and in one piece."

"We don't move unless I say so. Until I say so." Abraham snapped. He shot a hard gaze at Lee and Jerry, stared at them until they nodded back at him, showed they understood. "I'll give you his head and his balls in a jar," he rumbled to Missy. "I promise you that."

Missy nodded. Pa always kept his promises.

* * *

Dean listened to his heartbeat, fast and quick, drumming against his ribcage like it wanted to get out. He forced himself to breathe, tried to slow down the tidal wave of physical reactions and emotions he was feeling. His chest hurt, and his head felt weird, light-headed and leaden all at the same time. The rest of the room was a blur to him. He couldn't see anything past his fingertips.

_Sam fucked himself up because of me. He did. Stupid bastard. _

_I can help you, Dean. Let me help you…_

"I told him," Dean breathed raggedly, and he didn't realize he'd said it out loud. "I told him to stop doing that friggin' witchy crap. Now it's_ my_ fault, huh? My fault?"

"Dean?"

Dad. He was another one. For a wild moment he really wanted to hit Dad. Smash him in the face, kick his ass. Maybe _that _would get his attention. John Winchester, the great white hunter. _Here I come to save the day._

Bullshit.

They never listened to him. No one _ever_ did. _It was go over here Dean, kill this. Do this, Dean, do that. _After all he'd done for this fucking family, and _this_ was how it was gonna end?

The ropes around his wrists and ankles pissed him off. He tugged at them, and then tugged some more. Being unable to free himself fed the anger and it finally ignited inside him. It spread through his muscles, warmed his skin, and he could finally wiggle his fingers and toes again.

"Damn it, Dean!"

Dean jerked his head up. He glared at John. "You dumb sonofabitch," he whispered finally.

John grunted. His game face hadn't budged an inch. "This really you?"

"Yeah. It's me," Dean growled. "You're looking at my eyes, right? You always taught me to fight smart, to use my brain. What happened, Dad? IQs drop while I was gone?"

Dean shook his head in disgust. "I never knew you were this stupid. Wasting all this time and energy on damaged goods, 'cause that's what I am now. You know that, right?"

_Come here, baby, Beck whispered._

Dean jerked forward, his skin tingling with the memory of fingers sliding up his back.

_Working here does have its perks, gentlemen. _

They saw.

_This one? He's mine. _

Dad and Sam…they saw…

Dean shook his head to clear the memory away. The rage he felt came roaring back. That was good. It kept him warm, kept his hands from shaking. "Smart play would have been to leave me at Sweetbriar. I mean, why the hell did you even bother to come get me in the first place? No, wait, don't tell me." Dean tugged at the ropes, but it wasn't the frantic twisting motion that Gabriel did before. This was slow, calculated. He was testing the give of the ropes. "You needed an extra pair of hands on a hunt? Was that it?"

There was a flash of hurt in John's eyes, for just the barest moment. His mask had slipped, but it was firmly back into place now.

Dean shivered and shook. When he raised his head to look at John his eyes were still bright green. "Smart play now would be to doubletap me in the head and leave. Are you gonna do that? Oh hell, _no_." He snorted. "You picked a damn bad time to start playing Daddy."

John nodded. "I get it, son," John said quietly. "I do."

"You get it? Get what?" The twisting and turning grew a little more frantic. "Don't look at me like that, you hear me?"

Bobby appeared at the doorway. He flicked a glance at Dean, and his expression actually softened for a moment. "Ah, John? Need to talk to you for a moment."

"Can't it ---"

"Right the hell _now_, John."

"Don't you turn your back on me," Dean raged. "Don't you…"

Dean watched as Dad turned his back on him (_they leave me, everyone leaves me_) and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. Now that he didn't have someone, something to concentrate on, his energy level went down. He was a freak, now more than ever.

He wasn't safe to be around. Gabriel was still there, buried deep inside Dean's skin.

Gabriel waited.

And Dean knew why he'd pulled back inside in a hurry like that.

* * *

"Now what, Singer?" John growled. He wasn't very happy, and he scowled when he saw Sam sitting up on the bed. What the hell?? The look he gave Bobby was dark, pointed. Just what the hell did this old fool think he was doing? John tensed up.

Sam was up. Sam was loose. He rubbed his wrists and refused to move as John glared at him. Sam had that miserable, slightly twitchy look John had gotten used to seeing in the last two days or so.

"Why'd you untie him?"

"We need every available hand on deck now, you damn idjit. That's why. Whatever he did to Dean, or tried to do, he did it to help," Bobby hissed. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about making a deal or doing something stupid to get Dean back. You have. I _know_ you have."

"Dean needs ---" Christ, he really didn't know what Dean needed at the moment. It was darned hard to just stand there, to watch Dean all wild eyed as he rambled and raved. There was no sense asking him about the Benders, not until later, and mentioning the exorcism was out of the question. Telling Dean would be like telling Gabriel everything, and there was no sense in giving that bastard a heads-up.

"Dean? You can't believe a word he's saying now. He's out of his head. He's coming down off the drugs they pumped into him. He's still got Gabriel inside him."

"I know that."

"Then pull your head out of your ass and think clearly for a moment."

"All right." John scrubbed his hand down his face. God, felt like he was getting a headache, dull and heavy, settling down right between his eyes. "All right. Sam? Go sit with your brother."

It was obvious the younger man felt uncomfortable. Usually Sam would have stood his ground, resentful at being treated like some snot-nosed kid ordered out the room while the grown-ups talked.

Bobby waited until Sam was gone, then he turned to John. "We're screwed."

* * *

Checking the color of Dean's eyes was an automatic habit by now. They were green. Bright green. Green means go, green means everything's fine.

Not this time.

"I saw you," Dean whispered hoarsely, slightly wide-eyed.

"Wh-what?"

"Sam, I saw what you did."

_Oh, God…_ That seemed wrong somehow. God didn't have anything to do with what he'd been up to for the past four years. Sam's heart and stomach lurched down around the soles of his feet. He felt wrong inside, like a part of him had been rubbed away, worn down. He'd felt like that ever since he'd been pulled away from Dean, and that wasn't right, Dad and Bobby didn't understand. He was helping Dean, not hurting him.

"Dean, you…you couldn't have ---" Sam shook his head and immediately regretted it. That slight ache between his eyes promised a headache that was only going to get worse, a dull and heavy throb. Pain was the price, but Sam knew that Lim wouldn't be satisfied with just this small taste.

"You and that…that _thing_…"

Dean didn't understand either. Ungrateful bastard.

"Dean, please, let me explain…"

"You let that thing fuck you," Dean's eyes unfocused. He stared at a point somewhere behind Sam's left shoulder. "You did that…because of me…"

"What the hell did you think I was gonna do?" Sam burst out, and God he didn't sound macho, grown up, or confident. He wasn't feeling any of those things. Sam felt like a kid again, maybe nine or ten years old, trying to explain something simple to his stupid, stubborn older brother. _Please don't be mad at me, Dean. Please…_

The look Dean gave Sam was focused, intensely, painfully aware. "You let that thing fuck you, so you could what, help me?" Dean laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it. The sound was sharp and bitter, filled with despair. "Is _that _what you call that? You're _helping_ me?"

"It's not what it looks like. I mean…"

"It's not? Demons are our friends now, right? Yeah." Dean nodded. His eyes went to slits. "The same evil sonsabitches that killed our mom, that totally fucked up our lives and our family only wanna help us now, right?"

"Unbelievable," Sam muttered. He stuck his chin out defiantly. Dean smirked at him when he balled his fist up. Sam didn't give a damn then. "After all I did for you, and you're _mad_ at me?"

How many times in the past had he stood just like this, defending himself? He'd lost count of the times he had stood toe to toe with John Winchester.

Only this time it wasn't Dad. It was _Dean_.

"After all you did?" Dean cocked his head to one side. "You damned yourself, because of me, and now I'm supposed to kiss your ass for it and pretend everything's all right?"

"It's my life, Dean," Sam said stiffly. "I can do whatever I want with it."

"Yeah. Right. Fuck it up, toss it away. Well, thanks Sam," Dean drawled sarcastically. "Thanks a fuckin' lot."

"That's not how this is. You don't know what it was like all those years."

"I'm screwed, so now you wanna be too, huh?" Dean swayed from side to side in the chair. "You dumb sonofabitch."

_Don't do this. Don't say these things, Dean's out of his head, he doesn't know what he's saying, and you missed him these last four years, you know you did, say that, don't say… _

"I'm not the one that got taken by people," Sam heard himself say.

Dean froze.

"Big bad Dean Winchester gets taken down by a couple of hillbillies."

"Shut up." That wasn't Dean's usual growl, low and dangerous. He sounded weak; there wasn't any force behind it.

"Who got sloppy, Dean? Who? You did." Sam moved closer to the chair, and he actually enjoyed watching Dean deflate, enjoyed watching his brother's still broad shoulders sag. That suddenly open, raw look of hurt on Dean's pale face was priceless. He sat slumped forward in the chair, limp against the ropes that bound him, and he looked so beautiful like that.

"You made a mess, a fucking big one, just like you always do, and as usual Dad and I have to clean it all up." Sam moved closer to the chair.

His fingers twitched. The scars bloomed on the palm of his right hand.

_I could do this,_ Sam thought as he stared at Dean. _Take his pain away, once and for all._

"…dun't…don't touch…me…" Dean slurred.

"It'll be all right, Dean. It will…" Sam carded Dean's hair with his fingers. Dean shuddered. His eyes closed as his head rocked forward.

_Better,_ Sam thought. _He doesn't have to be awake for this. _

The sane, rational part of Sam's mind tried again. _Don't do this, Sam, don't you do this. He's your brother. He raised you. Bled for you…_

Sam stopped short. He wanted to lean forward, place his hand on Dean's chest, wanted to finish what he started, but he couldn't.

This was _wrong_.

What he was _doing _was wrong.

Something dark inside Sam howled in disappointment as he backed up. His vision momentarily went yellow as his back hit the wall. Sam barely felt it.

_I can't do this,_ Sam thought, _I won't._

He stared at Dean, slumped over, bound, pale and defenseless.

The scars in Sam's skin flexed like hungry gaping mouths.

Sam ignored them.

* * *

"Listen," Bobby said grimly.

John stood in front of the shuttered window right next to the front door. There was no glass, and there was about half an inch open space at the bottom.

Bobby pulled out his cell phone, hit redial. "Listen."

John cocked his head slightly. He frowned when he heard the ringtone outside in the distance. Sounded like one of those hard rock songs Dean used to love.

"Called Clyde's number back," the older man whispered fiercely. "Wanted to make sure those two idjits stayed put. They didn't. We got bigger problems than Dean or Sam right now." Bobby jerked his head towards the darkness outside. "We got company."

* * *

Next post? Saturday. It's the Winchesters versus the Benders, and Gabriel/Dean is the prize.


	20. a trick or two

_**A/N:**_ Well, it's Saturday. Winchesters versus Benders. Round one.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 20 – a trick or two**_

_Missy, please…don't leave me…_

He could sense them out there in the darkness, all dried blood and nicked steel, gunpowder and rage and it hurt that he was caged up, hurt to have Missy and Abraham this close, and he couldn't reach them.

_Abraham, I'm here… can't go out there just yet. I can't._

Gabriel made himself as small as possible in Dean's chest. He was a small curl of wispy whiteness tucked away in the muscles mere inches from Dean's heart. He hunkered down deep inside Dean's flesh, listened to ragged breathing, rough and hoarse, felt the slow thunder of Dean's heart stir the blood all around him.

Missy was right about God's way, God's work. Abraham had fucked up killing Gabriel like that, all those years ago, and Dean Winchester was the gift that made up for that mistake. Gabriel wasn't about to give him up now.

It was about time he found a use for the bastard. It wasn't like he was hiding under a rock like some bug or something. He wasn't running away. Benders don't run away. They hunt. They plan, and they kill. They wait for just the right moment.

Use him as a shield, yeah, that was the plan for now. Keep that shaggy freak brother of Dean's off him, Gabriel could bide his time until he could take control again. He'd take care of the Daddy and that other bastard, kill him nice and slow for what he did to Missy.

Missy could gut the freak. Yeah. She was in a killing mood. Gabe could feel it in the night air, sharp as razors.

Dean trembled and moaned as his body reacted, starving for the meds they'd both received the past six months. Gabriel pushed his way further in, twined himself around the bones of Dean's ribcage.

It was only the second time in his entire life that he'd ever felt afraid. The first time was when he looked into Abraham's eyes as his older brother raised his shotgun. And now this.

When he was tied in that chair, caged inside Dean's body, shivering and helpless, Gabriel looked up and saw his death in Sam Winchester's eyes.

* * *

The last ringtones from the cell phone echoed through the woods.

Missy screamed.

She pulled her knives and ran for the cabin, snarling, her eyes wide and feral.

"Damn it, Missy!" Abraham hissed. It was too late. He had enough presence of mind not to try to grab her. Abraham actually flinched as Missy charged through the brush. A second later a harsh snapping sound froze Abraham where he stood.

Bear trap.

The Lord must truly watch out for babies and fools, because Missy didn't go down. She kept right on running, past Jerry and Lee, and Lee was fool enough to put a hand out to try and grab her. She turned towards him in an oddly graceful motion and slashed him right across his right palm. She didn't even break stride.

When she broke into the clearing she ignored the shed. Gabriel wasn't there.

Gabriel was _there_, in that cabin, she could _feel_ it, she _knew _it, he was in that damn place, a few feet away, just on the other side of that door and those walls. Missy howled as she slashed at the outside of the building. Her lips skinned back from her teeth, and both knife hilts slipped, bit into her palms. Wood splinters sank deep into her hands and fingers and she never felt a thing.

The only thought in her head was _GabrielGabrielGabrielGabriel_ over and over again.

She left marks in the door, long frenzied strokes, then went for the shutters over the windows. She moved around the building hacking into the wood, screaming and shrieking and howling like a banshee. One of the knives broke. The tip of the blade broke off and lodged itself into her right cheekbone.

Missy didn't notice, not until later.

She went all the way around the cabin, and when she reached the front door she stopped, as if she finally realized that she wasn't getting anywhere, and nothing she did worked. The cabin was dark from the outside, but that might have been because of the shutters.

Missy finally turned away and walked back towards the brush. That yellow dress of hers, even though it was streaked with blood, was bright enough and light enough to make her a damn easy target. Jerry raised up far enough to aim and raise that fancy rifle he'd taken off one of those dead boys. He squeezed off two shots.

A single shot came from the house. Jerry yelped as the slug tore into his left shoulder. He fell back on his ass with a hard thump.

"You stupid bitch," Lee muttered as she walked past him. "Look what you did to me." He tied his bandanna around his palm, pulled the knot tight with his teeth. Missy paid him no mind. She didn't even try to wipe away the fresh blood that streamed down her cheekbone from the new cut on her face. There was already so much blood on her skin, a few more streaks really didn't matter.

"P-Pa?" Jerry whispered. His normally hooded eyes were as big as saucers. He sat there shaking, blood trickling down over his fingers from that hole in his meaty left shoulder.

"Jackass," Pa muttered. He came over and stood behind Jerry. Pa pulled Jerry's dirty flannel shirt and vest open and examined the wound with a critical eye. "It's a through and through. You'll live." Pa's tone was hard. He pulled a couple of dirty rags from his pocket and stuffed the rags down Jerry's shirt over the wound, front and back. "I was on a hunt once and I broke my leg. I _still_ brought that damn cougar down. You gonna let this stop you?"

Jerry's head jerked from side to side. _No sir._

"Didn't think so. Now get up."

Pa's fierce expression softened slightly as he looked at his little girl. Missy shuddered so hard he could feel the air vibrate all around her. She never took her eyes off the cabin; she was like a compass needle, always drawn back to that direction. Gabriel.

Pa jerked his head at the big black truck parked in the gloom behind them. "You boys go see what else you can find in that truck."

* * *

Screaming…

…_please no…_

Dean was screaming.

_No, please Sam, don't touch me…no no no... _

Sam jerked himself awake. The corners of his eyes and his eyelashes were sticky with tears. He couldn't see anything for a long moment, not until he scrubbed his hands over his face.

Dean sat slumped over in the chair, limp and boneless against the ropes. His head hung down and his hair was a curtain around his face.

Sam blinked in confusion. Dean was across the room from him; Sam had his back to the wall. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, remembered only that he had to get away from Dean as fast as he could. That slight corkscrew of tension between his eyes had blossomed into a full grown headache, dull and heavy. His balance was all shot to hell; if he stood up he'd probably face-plant, so Sam did the next best thing; he crawled over to Dean on his hands and knees.

It was just as well. Sam felt like he was four years old again, like he should be apologizing to Dean for something bad he'd done, but he couldn't remember exactly what. His hands shook as he reached out and shakily touched Dean's right knee.

"D-Dean? Please, dude, wake up…"

Dean stirred.

_Please_, Sam thought, _bright green, bright green is go, bright green is good…_

"Sorry, Dean, I am so damn sorry," Sam whispered as Dean opened his eyes. Sam saw green. Bright green. Hazy, dazed, but the right color after all.

"…'fraid 'a you…" Dean croaked hoarsely.

Sam blanched.

Dean's head bobbled, and incredibly enough, he smirked a little. It was pure Dean. "In your dreams. Not me, you dork. Him. Gabriel."

Dean's right leg shook so hard it vibrated. He frowned as he looked down at his body, as if he was bewildered and somewhat amazed he had a body in the first place.

"He's afraid of me?"

"I c'n feel it. Dumb sumbitch," Dean slurred. He swayed in the chair. "I tried, Sam. Tried to keep you safe. Innocent." Dean's smile was sad and regretful. "Fucked that one up, didn't I?"

"You did fine, Dean. You did."

Dean frowned. "Bullshit. That's…" One long blink, and Sam could tell Dean wouldn't be conscious much longer. His energy level was tanking. Dean jerked himself upright with an effort. "You gotta stay human, Sammy. You got to." Dean's eyes closed as his head drooped forward.

Sam stared at his right hand. The scars were gone, lying dormant for now, waiting for another time.

_Too late,_ Sam thought. _I think it's too late._

_

* * *

_Bobby grunted. "You get her?"

John peered out between the shutters. "No. Him." He drew back, pointed the rifle down at the floor.

"You're slipping, Winchester."

"You might be right about that, Singer. I was aiming at the girl. That's one crazy bitch," John muttered to himself.

"Huh." Bobby shrugged. He lowered his shotgun. "Think I knocked the sense right outta her when I nailed her with that door."

John smiled wickedly. "Not likely." He took another glance outside. "Don't think there was much in there to begin with."

That uncertain, tired look in John's eyes? Well, that was over and done with. John Winchester looked re-energized. He had the look of a man who had work to do, swiftly and efficiently. He had something…_someone_…to focus on now, the very someones who were going to pay for taking Dean all these years. It wasn't Beck, but it was a hell of a good start.

_We don't kill people._ That was something he'd taught his boys, but rules were meant to be broken. They weren't getting their hands on Dean again. Not ever.

"They got the Fletchers," John said quietly as he walked over to the three duffels in the corner. He kneeled, put the gun down and opened the nearest bag. "They got my truck. We can't stay here. You know that."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at him, then flicked a glance at the rest of the bags. He knew it wasn't even half of what they'd planned to bring. "You still keep those grenades in the truck? Tell me you didn't leave them in the truck."

"Nope." John grinned wolfishly. He pulled out an M67 grenade, round, fat and olive drab. "Got 'em right here."

Bobby grinned back. "Well, all right then, you idjit. Let's get to work."

* * *

"Just break the damn lock," Pa muttered crossly. Lee hit the trunk with the axe again. Nothing. The metal dented but the trunk didn't open.

Jerry crouched nearby, rooting through the dead boys' bags with one hand. Some clothes, couple of handguns, ammo and knives. Nothing special.

"We're getting Gabe outta there in one piece," Pa drawled softly. Lee kept his back turned so the old man couldn't see. He rolled his eyes _The hell with that, _he thought to himself_. Gabe ain't worth all this._

Missy stood nearby staring at the cabin in the clearing. Pa turned in Missy's direction. "Place down there is sturdy. It's a tough nut to crack." Pa said softly. Lee and Jerry recognized the tone. Pa was thinking things out, thinking things through. A wolfish grin spread across his grizzled, grimy features as he patted the fender of John's truck with a rough hand. "We got a tough nutcracker."

* * *

"Sam?" John rumbled. "You okay?"

He wasn't but what could he say? _No Dad, I'm not fucking okay. You think I pulled some witchy number to help Dean, but the truth is I made a deal with a demon and I fucked up big time? Yeah, that would really fly with the old man. _

Sam nodded instead. He felt okay, for now, so it wasn't a total lie.

Dean was awake. He sat dull-eyed, motionless. His shoulders shook slightly, and he didn't even react when John untied the ropes around his left wrist, then his left ankle. He stared at the top of John's head, and then frowned.

"Dad…pleas'…dun't…"

"It's okay, kiddo." John moved over to Dean's right side, worked the ropes loose.

"…not safe…'m not…"

"It's okay." John coiled one length of rope around Dean's left wrist and gently pulled his arm behind his back. Dean hissed at the muscle spasms that rippled down his arms and legs from from being tied up for so long. His back creaked loudly as he shifted position in the chair. John tied both Dean's hands together, behind his back, and that pissed Sam off. "Dad? You don't have to do that."

John knelt down, right in Dean's face. Green eyes. His boy was still here. Dean had trouble focusing on him, but the color of his eyes was a welcome sight. "Stay with me Dean, you hear me?" John said warmly. "Stay with me."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yessir."

John straightened up. He ignored Sam's bitchface. "Bastard's still inside, remember?" They stared at each other for a long moment. John didn't blink.

Sam finally did.

"You stay with your brother. No matter what." John snapped, and his tone was clear: _Don't start, Sam. Not now._

John turned towards the doorway. "Bobby?"

"Still clear. Don't know for how long."

John pushed the table all the way over to the wall. The rug on the floor was old and ratty looking. No one would look at it twice, and that was the whole point. There was a large metal ring set in the floor. John leaned down and pulled, and the trapdoor opened easily.

It was an old bootlegger's trick; the cabin was connected to the shed by a tunnel.

John picked up his rifle, pulled a flashlight out of his jacket pocket. He winked at Sam and dropped down out of sight a moment later.

"S-Sam…" Dean muttered breathily. " 'm chest hurts…"

"Dean?"

Dean sat hunched over, staring blankly. "It's him. Fucking bastard. I can feel 'im..."

"Dean, it'll be okay."

Dean didn't look convinced.

John's head popped up minutes later. "It's clear. Pass me the duffels."

Sam did so, and he fidgeted as John disappeared again. John came back moments later. He put out his hand and Sam pulled him up. "Fireman's carry for Dean. You got room. Once you get in the shed, you boys stay low, get in the back seat. Bobby's next."

Sam went down first. The air was stale; the place hadn't been used for years, at least. John jammed the flashlight into the dirt wall; the light pointed in the direction towards the shed.

Dean was dead weight as John helped him out of the chair. He had zoned out again, drifting off into some drug starved stupor. Dean twitched and jerked, but he didn't pull away. Sam hoped he was dreaming, hoped that whatever Dean was seeing was calm and peaceful. He deserved that much, at least.

Sam stood patiently down in the tunnel as John carefully maneuvered Dean down into the space. It was tight, but there was room enough.

_You carried me enough times, bro',_ Sam thought to himself as Dean's weight settled on his back. _About time I returned the favor._

Sam shifted Dean's weight onto his back, then moved forward in a crouch.

* * *

John heard it first, a familiar rumble off in the distance. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck rise up painfully.

They were nearly out of time. Bastards were revving up the engine of the truck.

"Bobby," John barked urgently. "Get your ass in gear. _Now!_"

Bobby backed away from the door just as John stepped to the window. He could hear the engine noise coming from just beyond the darkness of the trees and the brush.

Bobby got to the doorway leading to the second room just as John raised the rifle to the window shutter and opened fire.

"John, come on!"

"Be there in a minute. You see to the boys. Go on now." It was like throwing rocks into a fogbank, and about as useful, but maybe he could hit the windshield or the engine block, something, anything, to slow the bastards down, do something to give his boys a chance to get clear.

Headlights in the brush, bright white and blinding, and the truck hurtled forward. John was dimly aware of Bobby's hand on his arm. He squeezed off several more shots into the light, and my God, this was how Dean must have felt that night, with a ton of steel bearing down on him.

"You damn fool, come on!" Bobby snarled. He nearly pulled John's arm out of its socket as he jerked him away from the window, towards the inner room.

Too slow, they were moving too slow, with that stuck in molasses feeling that John always got whenever things went south. Two steps from the trapdoor, then one.

John had the sensation of freefalling into darkness and then everything around them bloomed bright orange.

* * *

Next post? Tuesday


	21. darkness falls

_**A/N:**_ Yep, I'm a day late. Sorry. Hope this was worth the wait.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**_Chapter 21 – darkness falls_**

Lee Bender stared at the fireball rolling up into the night sky and felt the muscles of his face twitch into a smirk.

_Fucking beautiful. Gabriel ain't walkin' away from this. _

The rear of the big black truck was still outside the cabin. Half the roof was blown off by the force of the explosion and from the way flames licked around the hole it was clear that the fire was going to spread.

_Not my fault,_ he thought to himself. _I did what Pa told me to._

Lee couldn't remember if how much gas was in the gas tank. He hadn't paid any attention before and he sure in the hell hoped the fire would get to it too. He hated doing anything half-assed, especially if that meant that Gabriel had a chance of living through this.

He risked a glance at his older brother. Jerry looked sour; he shook his head slightly. _Watch it, you stupid bastard. Don't let them see you lookin' like that. _

Lee shrugged silently_ Not likely, brother._

Pa had his hands full with Missy.

Sparks and flames shot out of the windows, and Missy howled her grief out into the night air. It wasn't words, exactly, just an ear-splitting, wild screech that ripped into the night air.

Pa was crying too; tears streaked down his face into his beard, and when he saw _that _Lee rolled his eyes. Crying for that freak. Huh. Waste of time. Good riddance.

Missy didn't try to slash Pa; she'd dropped her knives and was trying to run into the clearing. Pa had her by the waist from behind. He was holding her back, but Missy had a helluva lot of strength in that wiry body of hers. At one point she twisted halfway around and clocked Pa upside the head with her closed fist. He held on somehow. It was plain that if he let her go she'd run right into the flames.

Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Gabriel had ruined Missy for other men. It was likely that she'd never allow Lee or Jerry to lay their hands on her after this, much less fuck her.

Dense black smoke boiled up out of the cabin, made it hard to see the cabin and the shed nearby.

There was a loud bang, and everything went bright yellow.

Lee jumped. For a moment he thought that the gas tank_ had_ blown. He backed up nervously. Pa, Missy and Jerry froze where they stood. There was another sound, and it didn't hit Lee until a second later what he was hearing and seeing.

Headlights. Sumbitchin' headlights.

And the rumble of a big, well-tuned engine.

That plain blue car they saw back at the crazy place charged out of the smoke just as the gas tank in that big black truck caught.

The shed. The blue car was in the fucking shed.

The rear wheels of the black truck left the ground as the gas tank blew. The blue car fishtailed as it picked up speed on the dirt driveway, just as the rest of the cabin roof collapsed on top of the truck. Flaming debris sprayed onto the top of the shed, and some of it landed on the trunk and rear window of the blue car, but the way that sumbitch was moving that didn't matter. Whoever was behind the wheel drove like a bat out of hell. There were people in the car, all right. More than one. Possibly four.

Despite the heat from the fire, Lee felt a chill in the air. He turned and followed Pa, Missy and Jerry as they ran for the trucks parked in the woods.

* * *

Sam's mouth was bone dry. He couldn't feel his heart beat, couldn't even tell if he was still breathing. All he could concentrate on was the steering wheel and the gas pedal and the road up ahead. He glanced in the rear view mirror as the cabin went up in a blossom of orange and yellow fire.

"…son of a…bitch…" John groaned. Blood, dark and sticky, trailed down the sides of his neck from both ears.

Bobby sat slumped over in the back seat, next to Dean. Bobby was out like a light; blood caked the left side of his face, stained the collar of his blue plaid flannel shirt. His tan vest was stained with it.

Dean was unconscious; hadn't moved since Sam put him there. Even the sound of gunfire and the roar of Dad's truck failed to rouse him. Dean didn't move as Sam came back down the smoke filled tunnel dragging John and Bobby with him, and when Sam pushed Bobby onto the back bench next to him there was no sign that Dean was even aware of what was going on.

"D-Dad? Dad!"

"Can't hear you. All I can…" John swallowed hard, "all I can hear is this damn ringing in my ears."

Sam jerked the wheel to the right, gunned the engine. John's eyes widened as he was thrown forward. He put out his left hand to brace himself against the dash. John's right arm hung useless, limp.

The car straightened out. John wheezed as he sat back against the bench. He turned his head in Sam's direction; his eyes looked glassy, unfocused. "You…you gotta drive, Sam. You hear me?"

Sam nodded.

"You gotta…drive…son…" John slurred. His head bobbled; John blinked and it was clear he was losing the battle to stay awake.

"Dad?" Sam yelled. "Dad?"

They had a chance if they made it to the main highway. There was a full moon overhead, but that didn't seem to help. The road twisted and turned, but failure wasn't an option here. Sam caught a glimpse of the four people standing in the brush when the door to the shed came crashing down. Three men, one woman. Gabriel's family. One of them had to be that Abraham, and the woman was Missy.

Four against one if he got stopped and had to fight his way out. Typical Winchester luck, which usually meant no damn luck at all.

The inside of the Chevelle was suddenly flooded with light so bright it made Sam's eyes hurt. The car jerked violently to the right and a fine silvery spray filled the air.

_Glass_, Sam thought dully. _Broken window glass._

Metal crashed against metal, and that sound followed Sam down into the dark.

* * *

John came back to himself slowly. He was actually pretty surprised to find that he was alive and breathing; that was a damn big surprise in itself. He kept his eyes closed, and he took inventory.

He had a headache, dull and throbbing. Pain jabbed sharply into his right side every time he pulled in a breath. Busted rib, probably.

He could feel his legs, and that was something, at least. Both legs felt okay, a little cramped, but he could move if he had to. The fingers of his right hand tingled, right arm was numb, and a white hot spike of pain pulsed just beneath the surface. That ringing in his ears came and went, and he couldn't hear any other sounds.

John waited before he opened his eyes.

Everything was a blur, smeared and grey. That wasn't good. He could deal with the rest. He was ambidextrous, but if he couldn't see worth a damn that was definitely going to be a major problem. It wasn't completely dark, there was some sort of light source overhead, but he couldn't tell if the place had any windows.

John leaned forward, raised his left hand and gingerly rubbed at his eyes with his fingers. He raised his head and blinked again. That was a little better, but not much.

He put his hand out, felt around beside him, above and below. Dirt floor, and what he sat up against was metal. Rough. Welded, probably.

He was in a fucking cage. Had just enough room to sit upright with his legs stretched out. The top of the cage was about three inches above his head.

_They hunt humans, John,_ Missouri had said. _They hunt them for food and for sport._

And if the Benders hunted humans, then, yeah, they needed a place to keep the humans until the hunt was on. This was a barn or a basement probably. The dirt floor meant clean up was easy. They could get this place shovel ready for the next hunt in no time.

John cleared his throat, whispered hoarsely, "Sam? Bobby?"

He waited. Listened.

Nothing.

John sat back against the bars. His head ached. He closed his eyes, and his mind went places he did not want it to go.

Sam was dead.

So was Bobby. And Dean probably was too.

* * *

Missy was _not_ happy.

"That all you _got_, you crazy bitch?" the man in the trucker's cap snarled at her. He clenched his hands into fists, but he couldn't touch her. He was tied to that chair pretty damn tight. He was bloody all over, but he just didn't have that look of fear in his eyes. Missy switched her knife to her left hand, rubbed her fingers over the goose egg on her forehead. This just wasn't working out. He'd smacked her with that car door back at the crazy place, and she wanted to teach him some manners, but if he didn't scream and he wasn't afraid, then what was the whole point?

He kind of reminded her of Pa, only his beard was smaller. Maybe that was why something about him bothered her when she was close up on him like this. She still wanted his head in a large jar when this was all over. That much hadn't changed.

She'd even picked out the jar herself: it was tall, with a really large mouth. Missy thought that way back, when she was a little girl, that Ma had maybe kept cookies or some such in there. It was a really nice jar, and the lid screwed on. She might have to cut off his ears to make his head fit inside, but it would do. Missy was sure of it.

Right now, though, she had to think. She stuck her knife into the meaty part of his left shoulder, and then pulled it out.

He growled at her.

He didn't look pretty bloody. The only one she had ever seen that looked pretty like that was Gabriel. There still wasn't enough blood on this one to suit her.

Missy stepped in close, slipped the blade of her knife into his right thigh, and smiled as she watched the blood flow.

* * *

John blinked.

He cursed at himself for falling asleep again, or passing out, but he could see a little better now. The walls were wood planks. This was a barn. A grey tarp covered some box or another cage over on his left. He couldn't see the door in the far wall before; now John realized he sat directly opposite it.

John blinked, and his vision became worse and then better with each movement. Blurred, then hazy enough to see details, then back to blurred again.

The door was open. It was daylight out there; John could tell that much.

John stared at the man who stood just inside the doorway and felt his heart skid into his throat.

Shoulder-length sandy blonde hair, broad shoulders hunched up around his ears. The body language was hesitant, timid as he shuffled forward. It was wrong, all wrong.

It was Dean. John blinked, desperate to see what color the eyes were, bright green or darker. He couldn't tell. Dean wore a faded brown and yellow flannel shirt, workboots and faded blue jeans.

"Dean?" John murmured softly. His vision clear a little more, and he willed himself not to blink.

"N-No." Dean stared at John wide-eyed. He was pale. Twitchy. "My name's John." His hands shook. "Mister, I need…I n-need m-my m-meds," he stammered wearily. The voice was lighter, almost child-like. "They won't give me any. My head…head hurts."

Dean (and John couldn't help it, this was _Dean_, Dean's body at least) looked at him with absolutely no hint of recognition in those eyes.

What the hell was _this_? _Who_ the hell was this?

"All right then, _John_," John said slowly. "Where's Sam? Bobby?"

Dean moved his head jerkily from side to side. "Don't know who they are."

"You're Gabriel," John said flatly.

Another spastic jerk of the head. "D-Don't know any Ga-bri-el." Dean had trouble pronouncing the name. His tongue stuttered over the middle part.

A shadow darkened the open doorway, silent. Waiting. John narrowed his eyes when he saw it.

"I wanna…I wanna go back to my room. I don't like it here." Wide green eyes darted around nervously. "I don't know these people. I don't know you."

Someone stepped through the door, and the kid jumped nervously, even though the newcomer moved with a limp. Maybe Dean startled because he saw the baseball bat in the dude's right hand.

"Hey, boy," the man called softly. He was taller, dressed in dingy blue flannel and khaki pants. He smelled like sheep and dirt, body odor and cheap whiskey. He had on a baseball cap that was just as dirty as the rest of him, and his brown eyes roamed greedily all over Dean's body.

John blinked, and everything blurred. He was seconds away from losing it, and he knew it. _God, not again._ The idea of Dean being used sexually by everyone these last four years, that bastard Beck, these people...John's left hand clenched up into a fist. This was too much to take, having to watch Dean abused like this, and John had absolutely no doubt that was exactly where this was headed.

Baseball Cap didn't give John a second glance.

"You remember me, don't cha?"

Dean stood frozen in place. "I don't…I don't know you…" he stammered.

"Sure you do. I'm your friend, remember? I'm Lee," the man purred.

"You sonofabitch, leave him alone!" John roared.

"Well, I sure am afraid of you." Lee raised his right leg and slammed his foot into the bars nearest John's face. John didn't flinch.

"You touch him, I swear I'll kill you!"

"Not talkin' to you, meat," Lee grumbled. He struck the cage repeatedly with the bat. John glared at him. He didn't move away because he couldn't.

"You bastard, I'll fucking kill you ---" John raged.

"That's bold talk."

Dean stared at them both wide-eyed.

"Come on now," Lee said. "I know you been sick, but we used to be real good friends." He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Real good friends."

Lee hooked his right arm around Dean's waist and pulled him close.

_No, please, _John thought,_ not again, not again...._

"Never mind him. That's right, that's better." Lee pulled Dean into him even closer. They stood belly to belly; Lee stroked the side of Dean's face with broad, dirty fingers. "Good boy." he crooned.

"That's a guh…" Lee's eyes widened. His body jerked. "…guh…"

His mouth opened and closed, like a fish gasping helplessly out of water. A trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth down his chin.

Dean turned more to the side. John saw the hilt of the knife in his hand as he pushed the knife deeper into Lee's gut. Dean's expression was curiously blank.

John's only thought was, _Well, that's one less to worry about._

Lee staggered backwards, drenched in blood from his stomach down to his boots. The baseball bat fell from his hand. He stared down at the gaping hole in his belly, wide-eyed in disbelief. He turned, stumble-stepped towards the door, but his knees buckled and he went down on his hands and knees.

Dean watched him stagger and fall. He flicked the bloody knife upright into the dirt floor, and then he slowly went over and picked up the bat.

Lee struggled up, nearly fell down again as he tried to run. He didn't get far.

The first crack of the bat against Lee's skull was a hard, heavy sound. Lee stopped moving after the second blow. John knew he was never going to move again after the third one.

Dean stepped back, his face streaked with blood and bits of brain matter. He looked feral, somehow beautiful. He breathed fast and quick, and it wasn't from exertion. The corners of his mouth turned up in a small, satisfied smirk, and John knew in an instant he'd been wrong all along.

"Gabriel," John growled.

Gabriel turned his dark green gaze and winked at John. "Hi, Papa. Had you goin' for a while there, huh? Miss me?"

He kicked at Lee's corpse. "I ended up in Sweetbriar because of this lousy bastard." Another kick to the head, then another. Lee's body flopped around bonelessly.

"If you can't trust your own damn family, who the hell can you trust? Speaking of which," Gabriel scowled at the door. "Hey, Jerry! Get your ass in here!"

Another man, a larger, slightly older version of Lee, stepped into the barn. The look of fear in his eyes was unmistakable, even though he was wider and nearly a head taller than Gabriel.

He shuffled along like he was going to his own execution, and judging from the way Gabriel's fingers tightened around the handle of the baseball bat, he probably was.

An older man stood in the doorway. This one's beard was grizzled, grey. He leaned against the frame, and he barely glanced at John or Lee's body. He stood silently and watched Gabriel, and one look was all it took for John to get it. This was the oldest one, the other two were carbon copies in the way they looked, the way they dressed.

This was Abraham Bender, the head of the clan. Gabriel's brother.

Gabriel tossed the baseball bat on the floor next to Lee's body. His eyes were unusually bright as he looked up at the bigger man cowering before him.

"Okay, lambchop, listen up. Abraham spoke up for you." Gabriel nodded at Abraham and received a nod in return. "Said you don't have the brains to think up something on your own. You're one dumb sumbitch, and if you wanna keep breathing, I suggest you stay that way. If you ever look at me funny, I will put you down like a dog. Understand me?"

Jerry nodded.

Gabriel shrugged at Lee's remains. "This is your mess. Now you clean it up." He pulled a blue bandanna out of his back pants pocket and scrubbed at his face.

Jerry grabbed Lee by the ankles and hauled him out of the barn. Abraham stepped aside. Gabriel turned and he stepped into Abraham's arms. The hug was brief and fierce.

Abraham grunted. "Knew you'd come back, brother. Knew you'd take care'a your business, too." He looked at John and laughed.

Gabriel chuckled, and the sound was so Dean-like it twisted John's insides.

"You sonsofbitches," John rumbled.

"Now, don't be like that," Gabriel drawled. "We're all about family here, Daddy." He stepped over to the grey tarp, snagged it by the corners and pulled it off completely. "You can have some quality time with your freak here."

Abraham laughed. John cursed as his vision went south again.

"He's never gonna get out of that cage alive," Gabriel crowed. "We're gonna have a fine old time tonight." Abraham clapped Gabriel on the back. By the time John's vision cleared the door was shut and locked again.

He stared at the other cage. The man inside lay quietly, curled up on his right side. Dark purplish blue bruises dotted the left side of his face.

John couldn't tell if Sam was still breathing or not.

* * *

Next post Saturday.


	22. miles to go before I sleep

_**A/N:**_ Much thanks to everyone who has recc'd and reviewed this story, and much love to the lurkers out there, too! I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing. Just another quiet day at the Bender place in the hours before the hunt of John Winchester. Sam wakes up, and Bobby definitely has a problem. Chapter title taken from "Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening", a poem by Robert Frost.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 22 – and miles to go before I sleep**_

Lee never would be found this far out in the woods. Jerry picked a spot right next to this tree that had one of the hoodoo signs carved into it. He remembered Pa and Gabriel explaining how the symbols worked back when he and Lee were little. The sign looked like an inverted cross with an X on top, with these little circles around it.

"Stay quiet spirit sign," Pa had said. "Want you boys to remember how it looks. You can carve it or paint it. Either way doesn't matter, as long as you get it right."

Gabriel nodded. "That'll keep these sumbitches quiet, now and forever. And if that doesn't work, we got something stronger that will."

Jerry wondered how the other folks they'd killed over the years reacted to seeing a Bender along them again. He didn't imagine they bothered Gabriel much after he died, but then, Lee sure in the hell wasn't Gabriel.

Two hours later Jerry decided the hole was plenty deep enough. His muscles ached as he hauled himself out. He had a headache, but that was better than the alternative. He tried not to stare at what was left of Lee, but he couldn't help himself. The side of his brother's head was pretty much caved in, and Jerry had forgotten how handy Gabriel was with a knife.

It was true that Jerry was the dumb one, the follower. He knew it. Pa vouched for him, and that saved his life. He'd miss Lee, all right, but he'd told the fool not to mess with Gabriel in the first place. He'd told him, practically begged him to leave Gabe be once they got home that morning. Gabriel acted all confused and crazy, and Lee took the bait like the damn fool that he was.

So much for being the smart one.

Jerry grabbed Lee by the ankles and pulled him over to the hole. Lee went in curled up on his side. Jerry picked up the shovel and threw the first shovelful of dirt in. It hit Lee's head and shoulders, covered up the damage that was done to him. From this angle it looked like he was sleeping.

Another shovelful of dirt, then another.

_Better you than me, bro, _Jerry thought as he covered Lee up for all eternity. _Sorry_.

* * *

Sam swum upwards in dark, murky water. Damn training exercise. This was just like John Winchester; throw the kids in the lake, stand on shore and watch them deal with it.

Dean was probably already on the surface, lazily floating on his back with a satisfied smirk on his face.

The water was warm, and Sam could hear Dad saying his name over and over again. He didn't understand why Dad was whispering; usually he yelled, loud and clear.

Sam didn't understand that, either. He blinked and opened his eyes.

His body immediately checked in with the good news, and the bad.

He was still breathing, and apparently he still had all his fingers and toes. The side of his face and his chest and stomach felt like an elephant had tap danced all over him. Sam blinked at the hazy memory of broken glass, the smell of gasoline, and the shadows that loomed over him as he crawled out of the wreck of the Chevelle.

That was the good news. The bad was he was in a damn cage.

He couldn't see further than that until his eyesight cleared up, and once it did, he immediately focused on the sight of John Winchester in another cage, on the other side of the room.

Sam decided _that_ was bad.

Not only was Dad caged up, he looked worried.

That sure in the hell was _not good_.

Sam huffed as he pushed upright. His muscles were stiff and sore, and they bitched at him about the change in position. The top of his head bumped up against something hard, and he flinched.

Cage. Bars. Right. For a moment he'd forgotten about that.

"Hey, Sammy," Dad whispered. He relaxed, just a little.

"Hey." The word came out hoarsely. His throat was so dry it hurt. "You okay?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah."

"Where's…where's Dean? And Bobby?"

John's shoulders sagged. "I don't know where Bobby is. Dean's not driving now." He nodded at the spray of dark red blood on the dirt floor nearby. "Gabriel is. He killed one of them. That leaves four."

Sam blinked again. Maybe it was because of the head injury, but he was having a hard time understanding exactly what John was saying. Or maybe he _did_ understand, and he didn't want to believe it. "You mean three. Three left."

John stared at Sam.

"You're...you're not counting Dean in this…"

"Sam," John said slowly, "We might have to kill Dean to stop Gabriel."

"What? No." Sam shook his head, which was not a good idea. His head hurt like hell when he moved.

"Your brother wouldn't want to live like this."

"Dad, no. I can't believe you're even considering this ---"

"Sam," John said tiredly. "We've talked about this before, son. We have. You know we have, and you never wanted to listen. Sometimes taking care of each other means doing one last thing. The kindest thing we can do for Dean now is to put him out of his misery first chance we get."

"What about the exorcism? Bobby's friends? Dad, I don't get you. We did all this, and for what?"

"We may not be able to get Dean out of here."

Sam leaned back against the cage bars. "So that's it? You're gonna give up on him. Just like that?"

"Not the right time for this discussion, Sam."

Sam coughed out a hoarse bark of laughter. "Discussion? Is _that_ what this is? We're talking about killing Dean, Dad. When, _if_" Sam added pointedly, "you get out of that cage, the first thing you're gonna do is kill your eldest son. You've already made up your mind about it."

"I don't expect you to understand."

"You're right. I can't understand this. I won't. You're not killing Dean. You're not killing Dean because I know what's keeping Gabriel here. I know where it is, and when I get out of here I'm going to burn the damn thing."

Dad leaned forward, and that slight raise of his eyebrow was enough. He didn't _have_ to say anything out loud.

_Talk to me, then, damn it. _

Sam talked, and John listened.

* * *

Abraham had that look in his eyes. Gabe pretended not to notice. Abraham didn't get like that very often. He cleared his throat, and what came out sounded rough and careless. "Glad to have you back, hoss."

Gabriel smirked. "Damn glad to be back." He stepped just close enough to bump shoulders with Abraham, and then he stepped away. There had been enough hugging. This would do.

Abraham smiled, nodded, and continued on up the stairs. He was headed to that room he kept private downstairs. He did that sometimes too. A man needs private stuff, stuff he kept to himself. That was all right.

Gabriel stopped at the foot of the stairs to the house and looked around at the place. The stack of rusted cars over there looked about the same. Hadn't changed at all in the last six months. Pa and the others probably picked up folks to hunt on foot, on the highway.

He thought about what Missy wanted. A baby. A damn baby. Well, okay. After this was over he'd go into town, scout around, pick up something cute and pretty. No sense in getting an ugly bitch, considering he'd be the one to fuck her until she got a bun in the oven.

And while he was out there, might as well pick up something for Abraham too. He had to be tired of giving himself handjobs, or whatever the hell he was doing to himself. With any luck, they'd have more than one kid on the place, and then Gabriel could finish his business with Jerry.

He did say he wouldn't kill him. Never promised he wouldn't, years down the line. Wait until the kids were old enough to help out around the place, and then Gabe could take Jerry into the woods for a hunting accident of his own.

_Damn, it was good to be back._ Gabriel raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. He had a slight headache, but he'd had worse. His hands still shook every now and then, and it felt like his skin was stretched too tight over his bones. He was coming down from all that crap he'd taken at Sweetbriar, and all of this was okay.

He couldn't feel Dean. That was even damn better.

Gabe opened his eyes, cocked his head to one side towards the house. Didn't hear any screaming, so either that meant the old boy was dead or unconscious. He was a tough old bastard.

The thought of Beck made him pretty damn horny now. Being manhandled like that, taken like that, well, it hadn't been that bad. Beck had talented fingers, and the things he could do with his mouth and his body were pretty good too. Gabriel had to admit that. Besides that wasn't his first time at the rodeo, being with a man. Gabriel and brother Jeremiah had some lively times out in the barn and the woods, back when they were both alive.

That was in the past, and Gabe was quite content to leave it right there. He was home, and he had Missy again.

Gabriel whistled to himself as he walked up the stairs. He and Missy were gonna make up for lost time.

* * *

The air in the room was stale. Abraham reached out in the darkness and snagged the chain for the light on the first try. He'd been coming down here nearly every day for the past six months, and now he thought it was only fair that he tell them why he wasn't going to be coming back anymore. As always he closed the door behind him. What he said needed to be said behind closed doors.

The room was filled with cardboard boxes covered in layers of thick white dust. He'd forgotten what was in half the boxes scattered around.

Jeremiah Bender sat upright in the chair. He was just as stiff as he'd been the first day that Pa tied him up there. The back of his head was cracked like a broken eggshell, and wisps of thin black hair stuck up out of his dark leathery scalp like blades of grass. When Jeremiah was alive he had a thick head of shaggy black hair. Most of it was gone now, just like his eyes and the other soft bits of him. Yellow bones protruded from that faded red and white checkered shirt of his, and Pa knew the faded overalls he had on were filled with more yellow bones and dust.

Over the years Jeremiah's lips had drawn back from his teeth. He still had a full set and that wide yellow grin irritated the hell out of Abraham, always did, like the bastard knew a joke or secret that Abraham wasn't in on.

The bitch tied up in the chair beside Jeremiah didn't look much better.

Her name was Jane. At least, it had been before. Abraham had taken to calling her "Bitch" even after she was dead. The pink and white housedress she had on was faded too. Her skin was the same dark brown leather, but she was slumped forward, with her head down, as if she was too ashamed to look Abraham in the eye.

_That was only right_, Abraham thought. The bitch _should_ be ashamed of herself. He'd taken her in, given her a home when her own family had thrown her out, and the first thing she did was cheat on him with his brother.

Abraham cleared his throat. "I ain't coming down here any more. Gabriel's back from the crazy place. That proves he was supposed to be here all along. Back then you made me think Gabriel was the one, Jeremiah. I made a mistake, and the Lord forgave me. Ain't never gonna forgive _you_ for turning on your own flesh and blood." Abraham looked around the room. "I always get a feeling when I come in here. It's a true one. I know you two can hear me. If you ever decide to come back like Gabriel did, I'll fix the both of you. Fix you good."

That was about all he needed to say. Abraham walked over to the door, opened it up, reached out and yanked the chain for the light for the last time.

Darkness settled down over the room like a thick blanket, and Jeremiah Bender kept right on grinning.

* * *

The knife blade skipped over Bobby's left cheek. It went dangerously close to the corner of his left eye. The girl giggled to herself. She wasn't going to blind him. Not this early in the game. Her hazel eyes shone with a wild, gleeful light, and Bobby wished for one second of freedom. He'd wrap his hands around her throat and wring that scrawny neck like she was a chicken.

They'd tied him so tight he couldn't feel his wrists and ankles anymore. Between the ringing in his ears and the headache from the explosion, he wasn't in the best shape. And he hadn't seen John, Sam or Dean since he'd woke up tied to this chair in what seemed to be the kitchen.

_Never thought I'd end up like this, _Bobby . He'd had a long ride, longer than most. If it was his time, then so be it. But the idea of taking some of these freaks with him on the trip was _still_ mighty appealing. He just didn't know how he could manage that, tied up like this.

The crazy girl leaned in for another jab at his chest. Bobby steeled himself. Bitch had technique, but no real imagination.

She froze and Bobby stared at her. He heard footsteps in the hallway leading to the kitchen, and his heart sank. This wasn't someone trying to hide. Whoever this was walked like they belonged here.

Gabriel stood in the doorway. Bobby didn't even have to see those dark green eyes. In a way, Dean Winchester was _here_ all right, but he _wasn't _driving. Gabe smirked as he looked at Bobby, then opened his arms wide.

The girl squealed. She dropped the bloody knife in her hand and crossed the distance between the two of them in less than a heartbeat. SHe jumped up, wrapped her arms around Gabriel's neck and shoulders and her legs around Gabriel's waist. The kiss between them was wild and deep and sloppy. Gabriel licked at the droplets of Bobby's blood on her chin.

She nipped and kissed and sucked at his lower lip. The top of that bloody yellow dress of hers was unbuttoned and pulled down around her waist seconds later as Gabriel kissed his way down her neck. Gabriel kissed his way to her nipples and right then and there Bobby decided he sure in the hell didn't need to see _that_.

"Get a frickin' room, you two," he muttered, but they didn't seem to hear him. Gabriel backed up into the hallway with some difficulty and the moaning and wet mouth sounds faded as he walked down the hall. Bobby heard a door slam.

He was still screwed. She'd be back for him, sooner or later. From the look of things, later was far more likely.

* * *

"Full moon," Abraham said as he stepped onto the porch and looked up into the night sky. "Good hunting tonight."

Jerry nodded silently. He was keeping a low profile, probably would for the rest of his life, however long that would be. He had his ax in one hand, and the baseball bat Gabriel used to kill Lee in the other.

Gabriel kissed Missy long and deep. She looked younger than her twenty years now. Now that she'd gotten out of that yellow dress and into a clean blue one she looked fresh-faced, They'd been in the shower for hours, soaping each other down, learning the new body scars they gotten during the last six months away from each other. Gabriel had a few new ones from Sweetbriar. Missy had taken to cutting herself, just a little.

"All right, you two," Abraham drawled when the kiss went on a little too long. "We're burnin' moonlight."

When they separated. Gabriel frowned up some. "You sure you don't wanna come?"

Missy shook her head. "I still got some carving to do." She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen.

"Okay." Gabriel swayed on his feet, not a lot, just enough to make both Missy and Abraham scowl. She carded his hair away from his face. "You still got that headache, don't you?"

Gabe nodded. He saw the way Abraham stared at him. He straightened up, shrugged it off. "What? Took some aspirin. I'm okay."

Abraham shouldered his rifle. "So. What's the play tonight, brother?"

Gabriel grinned. "I shoot the freak in the cage, let the daddy out for a little fun."

"Well," Abraham drawled. "What you waiting for? Let's get to it."

* * *

The first thing John did was stare at the eyes.

They didn't look right. Gabriel's eyes were multicolored now, swirling patterns of light and dark green. He looked dazed, almost bewildered. He pulled the door shut behind him and staggered further into the room.

"Dean?" Sam muttered.

Gabriel only blinked. He didn't answer, he only stared, first at John and then Sam.

He pulled a Bowie knife out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the floor along with the machete he'd brought in. His motions were jerky, like a puppet being moved by someone who was a little rusty.

Gabriel swayed from side to side when he stood up again. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a .38 revolver.

'Dean?" John called out. "Son, I know you're in there. Don't do this. Don't…"

Gabriel turned in Sam's direction, raised the gun and fired.

* * *

Abraham smiled when he heard the second shot right after the first one. He and Jerry were in the bushes, waiting. The father looked like he'd be a good one to hunt. That shaggy haired freak? Good riddance.

Gabriel came out of the barn. He headed for the shadows and within moments crouched down next to Abraham.

"That's how you get the job done," Abraham crowed.

All Gabriel could do was nod.

* * *

"Dad?" Sam was wide eyed. "What…what the hell was that?" He stared at the two bullet holes in the wall behind his cage. "Who was…"

John grinned wolfishly as he pushed open the cell door. "That was Dean. Your brother is screwing with the sonofabitch."

"Okay." Sam nearly groaned aloud as he crawled out and stood upright for the first time in hours. His back cracked loudly. "What's the plan?"

John picked up the revolver Dean laid on the floor beside the knife and the machete. "You take this."

"What? I can't –"

John rolled his eyes. "Damn it, Sam, I'm not gonna argue with you. You gotta go to the house. Get the bible, burn the sonofabitch. Take care of your brother, and find out what the hell they did with Bobby." John picked up the knife, slipped it in his back waistband. "I go out there, they'll hunt me. That'll give you a clear shot at the house."

Sam hesitated.

"This is the only play we got, Sam. It's gotta be this way." John shook his head.

Sam finally nodded. "Dad, you won't...I mean, you won't hurt Dean..."

"No. I promise." John winked at him as he hefted the machete. "We'll get Dean clear, Sam. We will. Gonna give those other bastards hell. Be careful, son."

John paused by the door and then slipped into the night.

Sam waited.

* * *

Next post Tuesday.


	23. the woods are lonely, dark and deep

**_A/N: _**Chapter title paraphrased from a line from Robert Frost's poem "Stopping in Woods on a Snowy Evening."

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**_Chapter 23 – the woods are lonely, dark and deep_**

Gabriel kept his face blank while he fought against that jittery feeling that rose up in his gut and his stomach. He had a dim memory of the gun in his hand, the startled look on the shaggy freak's face as he raised the gun in his direction, smelled gunpowder in the air, heard the crack of two shots.

_I killed the damn freak. Didn't I? _

That thought didn't calm him down. His fingers shook as he reached out for the ax his brother handed him. Abraham didn't notice. Jerry didn't either.

Gabriel tightened his grip on the wooden handle while he screamed inside his head (_What the hell is wrong with me?)_ and _that _was wrong, that sounded too much like Dean had back at Sweetbriar.

Gabriel forced himself to breathe. It was the meds, that's all. Those fucking devil's sunrise pills, not having them was catching up with him, along with the rest of the pink, yellow and white pills, the injections and the shock treatments they'd given him.

The length of his hair bothered him now. Hadn't before. Maybe he should cut it off, make it shorter, but hell, his hair was one of the things Missy liked about him. Should have thought about tying it back, off his face. He had work to do tonight.

The weight of the pistol in his back waistband was suddenly heavy and somehow confused him. He'd put it there after he shot the freak. That was _it_, wasn't it?

Buzzing all around him, and Gabriel looked around wildly.

_White bees. White…_

They were coming for him.

_No please, I'll be a good boy, no, no! _

They'd get inside his head, burrow in underneath his skin and he'd be stupid and useless like he was before ---

_Now John, it's all right. You'll see. It'll be okay._

_They lied. They always did, even as they strapped him down, stuck needles in him, held his nose closed until he swallowed those meds right down. _

Abraham was turned sideways, towards the barn. If he noticed anything about Gabriel, he was being quiet about it. Gabe couldn't see his eyes clearly because of the shadow cast by the bill of his cap, but he could tell big brother was rock steady. He always was.

_You became that Beck fella's little she-bitch, didn't you, Gabriel? _

Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut.

_Lettin' him use you like that. _

Abraham had been there in his cell back at Sweetbriar, hadn't he?

_Thought you was better than that. Benders take. We don't get taken. _

Shut up.

_Here's a red pill, bitch. Spread for me. _

_Abraham saw. He knew._

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

All the noise inside his head stopped.

Everything was okay, it was all right. Abraham hadn't asked, and Gabe never told him any of what had gone on in that place. All that was his business, nobody else's. Gabriel Bender believed in handling his business, and he was handling it right fucking NOW.

Just ask Lee about that. Or Dean.

Oh, wait. Can't.

No good would come about thinking about stuff that was over and done with. It was in the past, and that's where it was going to stay. He was home, away from that place. He was with his family now, and he had a hunt tonight. Family business mixed with the pleasure of hunting down Dean's dear ol' daddy, and life just didn't get any better than _that_.

He felt better. Gabriel settled himself as he watched John Winchester move cautiously out of the barn. Daddy had the machete in his left hand, and that was okay too. The ones they hunted always got a weapon, they got a chance.

Papa Winchester kept to the shadows. He didn't move out into the open, didn't run around like a chicken with his head cut off. They hadn't fed him or the freak either. No sense in wasting good food on them.

Abraham turned and glared at Jerry. "Well, go on. Go see what he's got."

Jerry swallowed hard. He looked down at the ax and the baseball bat, and he thought so hard about it Abraham and Gabriel could hear the gears grinding away in his head. Jerry laid the baseball bat down and kept the ax. He rolled his shoulders, and if his injured shoulder bothered him, he didn't dare show it. Not in front of Pa and Gabriel.

Jerry charged out of the bushes.

Abraham said grimly. "Boy's gotta earn his keep more."

Gabriel nodded and tried not to smile.

Jerry was taller and heavier. He didn't move, he lumbered, like a grizzly bear on two legs. Usually that was more than enough to intimidate folks. Daddy backpedaled as Jerry slashed at him with the ax.

A slight tremor ran down the muscles of Gabriel's left arm. He reached up and massaged his arm up and down. Better.

"You all right?"

"'m fine," Gabriel growled as he worked his fingers into his cramped muscles. "You better keep your mind on our business."

Jerry tried to back Winchester into the barn wall so he could hack away at him. Dean's Daddy had other ideas. His movements were stiff, probably from being caged, but he didn't allow himself to be hemmed up like that. He kept his back to the barn and kept right on moving towards the woods.

Papa ducked the ax several times, and when Jerry left himself wide open on the upstroke Winchester slashed him across the belly with his machete. It wasn't a killing stroke, but Jerry backed up then, eyes wide.

It was the second time John Winchester had hurt him, and Jerry didn't have a clue about the first time.

Abraham slapped Gabriel on the shoulder as Winchester turned and melted into the darkness. "He's runnin'. Let's go."

Gabriel followed Abraham out in the open. He stumbled a little as he ran. His knees went wobbly for a moment, but he caught himself and moved more smoothly after that. Gabe smiled to himself, despite the small corkscrew of dull pain that settled between his eyes.

This was going to be a good one.

* * *

Missy stood in the kitchen and ignored the blood dripping off the knife in her hand. It splattered onto the yellow and black tiles. Some of it splattered her bare feet. Missy didn't notice.

She touched the bump on her forehead. It didn't hurt anymore, but getting hit with that car door still bothered her, even days later. Missy Bender didn't get hurt, she hurt other people. "I want to hear you scream, you old bastard. You hurt me, and I don't like that. I don't like you."

Bobby huffed wearily. "Lord, now you're gonna talk me to death."

"Huh." Missy blinked as she considered this. "You know what? You're gonna be here from now on. For the rest of your life, and then some."

"Is that a fact?"

Missy nodded. She cocked her head to one side as she looked him over. What she did next scared the hell out of Bobby more than anything else she'd done so far.

She came over and sat down on his lap.

"Jesus!" He growled at her as her weight on the slashes and wounds on his thighs shot fresh sparks of pain through his nervous system. "Get the hell off me!"

Missy hooked her right arm around Bobby's neck and pulled off his trucker's cap, put it on with the bill facing backwards. "Don't wanna," she pouted. She took her index finger and pushed the tip of Bobby's nose in with her fingernail. He snapped at her with his teeth. That made her laugh.

"I got some other things we can play with." Missy said thoughtfully. She lifted her knees slightly, swung her long legs back and forth like a kid sitting on a department store Santa's lap. "Stuff I never used before. Pa gave me some of his tools to use." Her grin was wide and feral.

Missy bounced up and down on Bobby's lap for another minute or so, clearly enjoying the discomfort she saw in his eyes. Her eyes unfocused and then she came back to herself. "Oh! Lemme show you!"

Bobby nearly groaned out loud as she jumped up from his lap. She disappeared down the hallway, and he swore that the bitch skipped as she hummed to herself.

She came back moments later, and Bobby felt his stomach drop somewhere around his boots.

Missy had tools.

The tools were in a banged up orange plastic bucket with a metal handle. Must have been a lot of stuff in there at the bottom, because Bobby could see the yellow wooden handle of a hacksaw, a crowbar, and a long metal file sticking out of the top.

Missy set the bucket down, bent down and started rooting through it. She pulled out a blue metal box cutter, pushed the blade out and shook her head. "Too short." She retracted the blade, threw the cutter back in and took out a small steel hatchet with a worn wooden handle.

She smiled at the gleaming cold steel. "Maybe later. See anything you like?" she chirped to Bobby.

Bobby didn't say anything.

* * *

John crouched in the darkness. That damn ringing in his ears came and went; it wasn't as bad as it had been before, but it was worrisome. He froze, cocked his head to one side and listened. He wasn't one hundred percent, but he sure in the hell was not going to let Sam know that. Kid had enough on his mind.

These woods belonged to the Benders. No way of knowing how many people they'd hunted down here over the years. For all of that, they were used to dealing with people who didn't know how to fight, who panicked and screamed and ran for their lives.

Not tonight.

It was like 'Nam all over again, but Deacon and the others weren't out there. Dean had his back, John knew it, but he wasn't sure exactly how much help the kid could provide, how much control Dean could take back. Dean would fuck with Gabriel as much as he could. John knew that much, but he had his part to play, and he couldn't afford any more slip-ups.

_You're slipping, Winchester, _he groused silently to himself. His right arm tingled and was sore at the same time, right down to his fingertips, so he'd switched the machete to his left before he left the barn. That should have worked; he was comfortable with either hand. That big dude had been a test, a tease, and John felt he'd fucked up. _Damn it. I meant to kill the sonofabitch. _

John's mind wandered to thoughts of Dean running in the dark all those years, killing innocents, and he immediately pulled back from that one, shut it down completely. Dean hadn't done that; Gabriel had. What that bastard said back at the cabin about Dean enjoying the slaughter was a fucking lie, and _that _was_ that_. John concentrated on what he had to do here. Stop Abraham and the two others, including the girl, if she was out here.

And he hoped he could keep his promise to Sam about not hurting Dean.

* * *

"Um…let's see." Missy stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and her brow furled up. "Eeny…meany…miney…moe!"

And naturally she picked up the one thing Bobby hoped she wouldn't: those long bolt cutters with black electrical tape wound around the handles.

His skin burned and tingled as she stared at him. She stared at his fingers, then his nose, then the tips of his ears.

Bobby felt like yelling when she stared fixedly at his crotch.

Missy dropped her eyes lower and a wide feral grin crawled across her face.

"This little piggy went to market," Missy sang. "This little piggy stayed home…"

She laid the bolt cutters on the kitchen table, dropped to her knees and started untying the laces of Bobby's left boot.

_No, oh God, no…_

Bobby squirmed, but nothing he did worked. He couldn't kick her in the face. His legs were tied to the chair.

* * *

Sam held the revolver down next to his side as he moved silently in the shadows towards the house. He had a bad moment when he actually had to cross open space to get to the porch. The skin on his neck and back prickled up into goosebumps when he saw that the front door stood wide open. Only the screen door was closed, and it wasn't locked.

Well, why the hell _should_ they lock it? Anybody who wandered onto the place was lunch meat anyway.

Sam cleared the steps in two strides. The porch was dark, and that suited Sam just fine. He flattened himself against the wall next to the front door. He was used to being in shadows now, preferred dark to light, and wasn't _that_ a fucked up thought?

With any luck Bobby was in here, and so was Missy's bible.

_"Tell me about the boy. That Dean…"_

Gabriel was closer to his expiration date than he _ever_ imagined.

_"Gabriel, what's keeping you here?"_

_"Missy," Gabriel wheezed. "Gonna be mad at me for leaving."_

_"What's Missy got of yours?"_

_"Look in her damn Bible, will you!" _

Once Sam got his hands on the bible he'd burn the damn thing. Dean would be free then, free and clear. He'd never have to worry about that Gabriel Bender bastard ever again. Sam could take his leave, go away and not ever come back.

Sam leaned over, put his ear near the door. He couldn't hear anything from the woods, but he could hear sounds inside the place. Female voice. Singing.

Missy.

Well, all right then. Sam checked the loads in the revolver again, and then held it down in front of him in a one handed grip as he put his hand on the door handle. He'd get the bible from her.

And he wasn't going to be gentle about it.

Sam opened the front door. He stepped inside and raised the revolver in a two handed grip.

* * *

Movement ten feet away. John waited, and whoever this was moved away. They made just enough noise so he could pinpoint their position.

That wasn't sloppy, _that_ was deliberate.

The other one hid in the shadows over on the right. John's eyes narrowed. It was an old trick; let the prey concentrate all their attention on one decoy hunter and as soon as the decoy moved away the prey usually moved and revealed their own position.

John got a brief glimpse, but it was enough, a second or two, a glimpse of blond hair in the darkness.

Gabriel. _Not_ Dean.

* * *

"This little piggy has roast beef." Missy pulled off Bobby's grey sock. "This little piggy had none ---"

"Get the hell away from me, you crazy bitch," Bobby grated out. It was one last great act of defiance. His heartbeat sped up, pounded against his chest.

"Sticks and stones will break my bones," Missy chanted, "but words will never hurt me." She opened the bolt cutters wide, positioned the head so that the little toe of Bobby's left foot was between the blades.

"And this little piggy cried 'Wee! Wee! Wee!' all the way home." Missy grinned as she squeezed the bolt cutter handles shut. Hard.

Bobby screamed.

* * *

_Gotcha._

Abraham Bender surged forward out of the dark. The man crouched in the bushes before him turned halfway to meet him, but it was too late. Abraham wrapped his arms around the bastard and held on. He was a strong sumbitch, stronger than anyone Abraham had ever fought before.

This John Winchester fella didn't lose his head, either. He rose to his feet, backpedaled, and Abraham knew what was going to happen next. He was going to get slammed into that tree and then this one was going to turn around and use that machete on him.

That didn't happen.

Abraham smiled when he heard the bear trap go off. The man staggered. He made a small noise deep in his throat, somewhere between a moan and a growl. Abraham recognized the sound. That bear he'd killed years ago made a sound like that, hurt but still defiant to the very end.

When Abraham let go Winchester sank down on his hands and knees. He still had the machete in his hand. Abraham stepped forward, slammed his boot heel down hard on his hand, then kicked the machete away.

The bear trap was chained to a large tree nearby. Winchester was hobbled, no doubt about it.

Gabriel and Jerry came rushing up. Jerry was in the lead. Damn fool boy whooped and hollered as he raised his ax, and Gabriel backhanded him. Jerry lowered the ax and looked like someone had stepped on his puppy.

Winchester raised his head to look at Gabriel and Gabe hit him in the face with the baseball bat in his hand, put him down nice and easy. It wasn't a killing blow, Abraham could tell; it was just enough to lay him out.

"Not yet, you stupid bastard," Gabriel snarled at Jerry. "I wanna play with 'im first."

Abraham grunted in satisfaction. His baby brother always did have good ideas like that.

* * *

Next post Friday


	24. the blood ties that bind

_**A/N:**_ It's Friday. We're back.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, and not for profit.

* * *

**_Chapter 24 – the blood ties that bind_**

Sam paused in the kitchen doorway, temporarily frozen solid by the sound Bobby was making. He was in agony, but there was pure rage too.

"You bitch," Bobby bellowed. "You crazy bitch…"

"Bet that hurt, huh, little piggy?" Missy laughed.

Her back was to Sam, and he crossed the distance between them in less than an eyeblink. He vaguely remembered slipping the revolver in his back waistband, but the next thing he remembered was picking up one of the kitchen chairs. Sam remembered thinking that it was made of heavy, solid wood, that he couldn't shoot the bitch because if he did the sound of the shot would alert the others.

The chair splintered the first time he hit her from behind. Sam didn't care if it was a dirty trick or not. Missy didn't go down immediately; she actually turned around, lips skinned back from her teeth in a snarl, eyes gone to slits. She raised the bolt cutters, and the blades were slick with Bobby's blood. Sam put his shoulder into it and hit her with the chair.

Again.

Missy hurt Bobby.

And again.

She had Gabriel's remains.

And again.

_She_ was the reason Dean stayed so fucked up for so long.

When Sam came back to himself he found himself standing with his left hand fisting the front of her blue dress and the knuckles of his right hand slick with her blood.

Missy's entire face was swollen, purplish black. Her eyes were closed.

"Oh, Jesus," Bobby moaned. His head rolled from side to side.

Sam hit Missy again, just to make sure. The cartilage in her nose crumpled underneath his knuckles, and when he released her she dropped limply to the floor.

"Bobby, Bobby---"

Sam grabbed the knife that was on the table, and it was slick with blood too. Bobby's blood.

Sam cut the ropes around Bobby's wrists and ankles. His mind picked up all the details, tucked them away for future viewing. That was the way Sam was now, and he couldn't help himself. If he stopped to think about what he was seeing, it would be too much, and he wouldn't be any use to anyone.

Bobby Singer was slashed and cut and ripped up from his face all the way down to his feet. Bobby's little toe lay on the faded yellow and black tiles a few feet away. His eyes rolled wildly, and he jerked backwards when Sam leaned in.

"Bobby! Dude, it's me. It's Sam!"

Bobby blinked. "About time you got here, boy." Pain shuddered through the older man. He stared down at his wrists, seemingly surprised he wasn't still tied up. His wrists were dark purple with rope burns. His fingertips tingled. "Did you get…" Bobby's eyes tracked beyond Sam. "Good. Got her."

Sam reached for a dish towel nearby, dropped to his knees and gingerly pressed it to Bobby's foot. The towel wasn't clean, it was a nothing more than a dirty rag, but he had to stop the bleeding. Bobby bit down on his lips to stop the scream rising up in his throat when Sam touched his foot.

Pain stuttered through Bobby, made him shake and shiver in the chair.

"Where's…Jesus Christ…where's your brother? Where's John, Sam?"

Sam jerked his head towards the doorway. "They're out there. In the woods."

"W-What's the plan now?"

"We search this place." Sam nodded down at Missy. "She's got a bible. Probably something of Gabriel's in there." Sam got up went over to the sink, retrieved another dish rag that was a little cleaner than the first one. He kneeled down and gently pulled the first rag away from Bobby's foot. "Skin, a lock of hair. Something. We find it, we burn it, and Dean's free."

Bobby nodded. The pain ebbed and flowed. He could do this. He could handle it. "All right then. Patch me up and let's go."

* * *

Gabriel grinned. "Sounds like Missy finally found that old bastard's sweet spot." He nudged the side of John Winchester's face with his boot. Still out cold.

Abraham laughed. "Jerry, go check on your sister, you hear? This 'un aint goin' anywhere."

Jerry backed up, but then he stared at the unconscious man on the ground. "You gonna wait until I get back, Pa?"

"Maybe." The look Abraham gave him was hard, stern. "Why you standin' there still jawin' at me, boy?"

"Yes sir." Jerry turned and left.

Abraham sighed. "Boy takes after his mother. Not much brains in either of them."

Gabriel looked thoughtful. "About that. Missy tell you about the rug rat she wants?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, when I go into town. I'm gonna pick up a bitch for you too. We need some new blood around here, and…" Gabriel looked down at the ground, scuffed his toe in the dirt. "That's my way of thanking you for comin' for me." He seemed suddenly shy, somewhat awkward.

He looked down at John and his eyes narrowed. "Either go home with this bastard," Gabriel kicked the man in the thigh, "Or stay in the crazy place." Gabriel made a face, shook his head. "Not much choice at all. It's good to be home."

"Well now, I appreciate that, brother. Thanks!"

Gabriel snorted. "Knew you would."

* * *

Jerry hit the front steps yelling out Missy's name. He cocked his head and listened.

No answer.

That in and of itself didn't necessary mean anything. Missy sometimes lost track of time when she was working her knives. She was in her own little world then, and she didn't like to be interrupted.

Jerry had the scars to prove it.

He remembered that time she found those stray kittens in one of the junkers out back. Pa had to go out and get her to come in for supper. She didn't even bother to wash the blood off her face and hands.

Best thing to do was go in loud so he wouldn't startle her. "MISSY! HEY!"

He opened the door, walked down the front hallway. "Missy! Pa sent me back to see if you were okay."

Jerry stood in the kitchen doorway. Well. The old man was still in the chair. His head was down, and his eyes were closed, so he was either out or dead.

Missy was nowhere around. Jerry frowned. Maybe she was out back taking a leak or something?

"HEY, MISSY!"

Jerry looked at the bucket of tools by the kitchen table. Huh. Pa's stuff. There was a lot of blood on the floor and on the old man. Jesus. She had pretty much worked him over. Might as well take a look, as long as he was here.

He was more concerned about not surprising Missy. Jerry moved cautiously. That would have been bad, _very_ bad. He leaned down in front of the man, and the fact that the bastard was not tied up anymore finally registered with him. Jerry straightened up with a jerk, but it was too late by that time.

The man moved, and he moved fast. His head snapped up. There was murder in his eyes, and steel in his hand. Jerry felt something thunk solidly into his chest. He stared at the handle as it moved up and down, felt his heart stutter as the knife moved in time with every failing heartbeat.

Jerry hit the floor a moment later, and his last thought was that Gabriel was wrong, being dumb and stupid had gotten him killed after all.

* * *

The door to the kitchen pantry creaked as Sam pushed it open.

He left Missy's broken body on the floor inside the pantry. Jerry Bender stared up sightlessly into eternity. "Damn, Bobby," Sam whispered.

"That's two down." Bobby looked pale. He flinched as he tried to stand up. The dish rag was a makeshift bandage held in place by Bobby's sock. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to put his boot back on. He deliberately didn't look at his toe over there by the kitchen table, either. The minutes were ticking away and Bobby highly doubted they'd be in time to get to an ER and get it reattached.

Well. He'd known signing on for this wouldn't be easy. No way he could've turned his back, not if it meant Dean had a chance to come home. Lot worse things than losing a toe.

"Come on, Sam," Bobby grated out roughly. He lifted himself out of the chair. "Let's find that damn bible and burn that Gabriel sumbitch."

* * *

"Wake up, Daddy!"

Dean kicked him.

_What the hell? Boy was going to pay for this…waking him up like that…_It was all a jumble inside John's head. He remembered staggering back from that black dog hunt beat halfway to hell. It wasn't like Dean to get all rude like that, especially with John.

Another kick, another voice, this time in the side.

John blinked as the pain in his leg came roaring back to fill his consciousness.

"Come on, wake up."

He recognized the second voice. Fucking Abraham Bender.

John came fully awake.

"Yeah, that's better," Gabriel drawled. "Wouldn't want you to miss out on anything."

John turned over slowly onto his back. He still had the Bowie knife in his back waistband. It was a damn miracle he hadn't impaled himself on the damn thing when he hit the ground.

_Ah, God…_Pain traveled up and down his body, sharp and white hot. He raised up just enough to stare down his right leg. Bear trap. His eyes travelled down the long steel chain that the trap was attached to. John nearly groaned aloud when he saw it was looped and padlocked around that tree trunk.

Abraham laughed. "Winchester, huh? Like the rifle?"

John nodded. "Like the rifle," he said hoarsely.

"Well, I guess you've come to the end of your road, Winchester like the rifle," Abraham drawled. "Your other son's dead. You got him killed, and for what? Woulda been better if you'd just cut your losses and moved on."

"Fuck you," John snarled. He sat back on his elbows, managed to fold his fingers underneath his back. His fingertips brushed the top of the knife hilt. Abraham was close, but Gabriel was closer.

"I want my son back." John glared fiercely at Gabriel. "I want Dean."

Gabriel pulled his hair away from his face as he knelt down. "Well, you can't have him. Been gone, what, four years now? If you and yours were any good, you wouldn't have lost him in the first place."

Gabriel stared hard at John, then his expression brightened as though he'd finally figured it out. "I get it now. Your boys are your weakness. I can see it in your eyes, Papa John. What, did _this_ one remind you of your woman? Is that it? She dead now too?"

John didn't answer.

Abraham walked around John with the barrel of his rifle pointed at the ground. "Your boy's weak. Just like you. I seen it in his eyes. He'd wake up some days, in the beginning. Try to struggle. Couldn't get away. He was a gift to my family. God forgave me."

John snorted. "Forgave you? For what? Marrying your own sister?"

The crack of Gabriel's hand against John's face echoed sharp and flat in the night air. "Watch your fucking mouth."

John laughed through the pain. "Struck a nerve, huh? So what the hell were you doing before they brought Dean here, Gabriel? Floating around without a body, watching life go on without you? Hope you got friends on the other side, princess, because you're going right back there."

"Uh, John boy, I think I hit you just a little too hard." Gabriel frowned. "I knocked the sense right out of you, didn't I? Maybe you don't realize your situation right now. You're chained and trapped, your freak's dead, and Missy is having some fun with that old fool with the cap."

"I hunt things like you, Gabe. I hunt 'em and put them down for good. I've seen my share of spirits like you. You're fucking cowards."

"Shut up." Gabriel scowled darkly.

"You hang around. You wait." John hissed as a fresh wave of pain travelled up his leg. The steel teeth of the trap dug into his flesh, but if he didn't move around so much, not until he had to, then maybe he'd still have a leg when all this was over with. "You couldn't take Dean when he was healthy. He would have salted and burned your sorry ass and not even blinked."

"Shut the fuck up…" Gabriel rose unsteadily to his feet. He rubbed at his left temple with one hand.

"You waited until Dean was half dead, busted up, and then you made your move. That's because _you're_ weak. That's because my son Dean is a better man than you are even on his worst fucking day. You call yourselves hunters?" John laughed as he sat up. "That's a damn joke. Did I call you a cockroach before? Well," John smiled wickedly. "I was wrong. You're a maggot. A dickless maggot---"

Abraham snarled. He stepped in close and reversed his rifle so it was butt first.

He smashed John in the face with it.

John took the blow. His ears rung, and his vision went white. He reached down and back, pulled the Bowie knife out and plunged the blade into Abraham Bender's left boot.

* * *

_'s not fair...__Gabe's mine...__God kept his promise to me...b__astards think they're gonna take him away from me again…__Bible…t__hey know about the bible…_

_gonna kill 'em…gonna kill 'em all…_

Missy opened her eyes.

* * *

Abraham stared down at the blade sticking out of his boot.

He laughed. "Can't feel no pain like that. Never have been able to." Abraham leaned down and pulled the knife out of his foot.

_Sonofabitch…_ John's eyes widened.

"It'll bleed for a while, then the bleeding will stop," Abraham said mildly. Always does."

Gabriel stared at Abraham. The boy looked tired, beat on his feet. He swayed slightly. Little brother was probably worn out from all that was going on. Maybe it was too soon to ask him to hunt anyway.

"Well, I'm gettin' kinda bored now, Papa Winchester." Abraham flipped the knife into the dirt so that the blade stuck in the ground. "Think it's time to end this." He raised his rifle up as he stepped back. He didn't want to shoot Winchester in the head; Abraham intended to aim for his chest. It was one of his quirks; he really enjoyed seeing the light and the life go out.

Winchester stared back at him, bloodied and defiant.

Bastard.

Gabriel moved. Abraham heard the click of metal and he still didn't believe it. Gabriel stood there with his pistol in his hand, pointed right at Abraham's head.

The boy spoke; the voice was rough and familiar: "Not gonna let you shoot my Dad."

* * *

Next post? Monday. Final round action between the Winchesters and Bobby, Pa and Missy.


	25. Chapter 25a: promises to keep

_**A/N: **_I would have posted this last night, but the site was down for maintenance. I'm also a little behind in answering reviews, but I will answer each and every one today. Chapter title is taken from Robert Frost's poem _"Stopping in Woods on a Snowy Evening."_

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 25a – promises to keep**_

Abraham's smile was yellowed, fierce and stained. "Well, now." He cocked his head to one side as he stared Dean up and down, like a hyena searching for a weak spot. His eyes settled on Dean's face. "Finally grew a pair, huh boy? Decided to come out an' play? After all this time?"

"Drop the fucking rifle," Dean said flatly.

"So what if I don't, huh? You gonna shoot me in cold blood?"

"Yep." Dean tightened his grip and raised the gun a little higher.

Abraham nodded at John. "Your Daddy's here, so now it's time to play like you're a big damn hero now, ain't it, boy?" He grinned, sly and knowing. "You never came out during a hunt before. Didn't do a damn thing to stop us from hunting. You ever wonder why?"

"Dean," John said slowly, quietly. "Don't listen to this bastard. Don't."

"You wanted to hurt those people we hunted. You enjoyed it." Abraham stood there, relaxed and easy, like he was talking to a fellow hunter before they went out to hunt deer, or rabbits. The rifle barrel pointed down at the ground now.

_Remember that blonde bitch that looked at you like she was smelling a gas leak?_ Gabriel whispered inside Dean's head. _Bitch wasn't so high seddity after we got through with her, now was she? _

Dean blinked at the memory. Darla Green. Cheerleader. He could almost remember the name of the high school…

_Other one we bagged that night at Kugel's Keg looked just like her. _

_We? No, no… I didn't…_

_Yeah, you did. Why the hell do you think I picked her out in the first place? _

_Shut up. Shut the fuck up_.

"I don't give a damn," Dean snarled at Abraham. "You're not hurting my Dad anymore."

"There's no shame in liking it, boy. Having a life in your hands, seeing the light in their eyes go out, makes you feel powerful alive. It's what people like us were put here to do."

"I'm not like you," Dean snarled. "Shut your damn mouth."

"Dean!" John snapped loudly. "Get ahold of yourself. Don't listen to this bastard." It was John's command voice, the one voice that Dean never failed to pay attention to. Dean jerked, straightened his back in response.

Abraham looked doubtful. "You're not? Huh. You fit right in with us, boy. When we brought you in that night, I seen the scars on your body. Bet you got 'em helping folks." Abraham wrinkled his nose in disgust, as though that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.

_Remember, Dean?_ Gabriel again. _Remember that one, looked like that sheriff up in Washington State? He spat on you, called you poor white trash._

Dean's gun arm didn't waver, but John wasn't fooled. Dean was on the edge.

_My God, he's listening to this bastard._ John sat up slowly. The teeth in the bear trap bit more deeply into his flesh. Pain washed over him, and he could feel the world pull away from him as black spots bloomed along the edge of his vision. Don't black out, you bastard, John told himself. Not fucking now. John leaned forward slowly. His head and vision swam, but he blindly reached out and grabbed either side of the jaws of the trap.

_Dean stood frozen where he stood._

_You tried to help his family, and what did he do?_ Gabriel murmured slyly. _Dumb sumbitch had you locked up, and they all died._

John pulled. He bit down the scream that rose up in his throat.

"Bet they didn't appreciate what you did for 'em. You bled for them, and as soon as you left town they forgot all about you." Abraham nodded at John. "You ever stop to think why your old man took his own sweet time tracking you down, if he's as good as you think he is?"

_Sam, Dad always did know when to let go of a lost cause._

"My brother Gabriel ain't goin' anywhere. You know that deep down inside, don't ya? You were a gift to him. God's gift to me and mine. You look just like he did when he was your age. Now why don't you just be sensible about this? Put the gun down, walk away."

Abraham raised the rifle just high enough to endanger John. Gabriel made the muscles in Dean's arm twitch downward.

Dean pulled the trigger.

The bullet punched a hole in Abraham's thigh. He went down on his hands and knees.

Gabriel screamed inside Dean's head. Dean flinched.

Abraham laughed as he struggled up on his hands and knees. "You can still have a life here with us, boy. A roof over your head, with people who ain't gonna ever leave you ---"

Dean's arm jerked upwards, even as Gabriel screamed _Nononononono._

A single gunshot echoed through the woods.

* * *

Sam froze halfway up the stairs. Two shots. John had the knife and the machete, not a pistol, unless he managed to get the drop on the Benders and take one of their guns away.

He'd found a small cloth bag in the kitchen, loaded it up with a box of matches, lighter fluid, and a box of salt. The bag grew suddenly heavily in his hand. _What if I'm too late? What if Dad shot Dean because of Gabriel? _

Bobby turned from the doorway of the living room, shook his head as he limped for the front door. "Keep looking, kid." His face was grim as he broke open the double barreled shotgun in his right hand and checked the loads out of habit. Bobby patted his left pocket for the extra box of ammo, then nodded. "I got this." He looked up at Sam and his expression softened slightly. "You find the damn bible. Torch it. I'll see about Dean and John."

Sam nodded. Missy's room should be up on the second floor. Easy to spot, right? She was the only female in the house.

Bobby ignored the pain that shot up his leg with every step. He had work to do. If the Benders ran from him or at him, he'd shoot them. Simple as that.

Hell, if he saw 'em, he was blasting them right to hell. Except for Dean, of course.

Two minutes later Missy Bender crept out of the kitchen. She had her favorite knife in her right hand, and that small steel ax from Pa's tool bucket in her left.

Missy ignored the pain in her head. She had work to do too.

* * *

Abraham Bender lay on the ground, eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky. There was a round, neat hole right between his eyes.

John waited, hunched over, his eyes gone to slits, as he rode a rising wave of red hot pain that threatened to pull him right under. He was dimly aware of the blood running down his leg on both sides, and his finger slipped on the metal edges as he pulled the jaws open wider.

Dean staggered around John. He knelt down in one smooth motion, put his back to his father. His gun slipped from his fingers as his hands hooked into claws. His broad shoulders shook and he balanced on the balls of his feet, his hair a long thick curtain around his face.

John pulled. The steel jaws of the trap gaped wider, despite his bloody fingers. A little more...

"D-Dean?" John gasped. "A…a little h-help here?"

Dean took a deep shuddering breath as he slowly ran his fingers though his hair. John's Bowie knife stuck out of the ground by his left hand. Dean's fingers shook as he reached backwards for it and curled them around the hilt.

"Dean?" John turned sideways a little to look at his son. His grip was slipping. He could feel it.

Dean looked at John over his right shoulder just as he pulled the knife completely out of the ground.

John froze.

A single tear ran down one lightly freckled cheekbone. Gabriel Bender stared at John with those dark green eyes of his.

* * *

Missy stood in the front hallway. Her face hurt, and her eyelids and her mouth felt fat, but she could open her eyes a little wider now. She couldn't understand why Jerry was down on the floor like that. Pa wouldn't like it, no sleeping during a hunt.

Slick copper blood on her tongue and Missy stared at the door and then at the stairs. Her head still hurt, and it hurt worse than it had when that old man hit her with the car door.

She was missing something. Had forgotten something. It nagged at her, bobbed underneath the surface of her mind. She could remember what it was if her head didn't hurt so such. She felt glimpses of it. A tree. Somewhere safe and warm, and then just like that, it was gone, pushed under by a wave of sound.

Missy could hear voices now. They roared and snapped inside her head, right behind her eyes. Sometimes they sounded like Pa

_Kill 'em all ---_

and sometimes they sounded like Gabriel

_---you kept me warm, first time I saw you, you did ---_

And sometimes the voices sounded like a rolling thunderclap, the voice of God

_--- I promised him to you, you above all others ---_

She liked what they were saying, but she was only one person and she couldn't be in more than one place at the same time but the sound was kind of nice, like listening to the echo of the ocean inside a seashell.

Missy knew what a seashell was. She'd found one inside the bag of some meat they hunted one time.

The voices got louder and louder. Missy swayed in place, was rooted to the spot. She liked the idea of cutting the old man's throat, but then the shaggy haired boy was upstairs and she hated him just as much. She saw the look of fear in Gabriel's eyes whenever he looked at him. He tried to hurt Gabriel, and he hurt her.

Missy was completely over the edge now. She never had a firm grip on reality in the first place, and the beating Sam Winchester gave her didn't do much to help matters.

She closed her eyes, and the nursery rhyme came back to her.

_Eeny, meeney, miney, moe…_

This time the old man wasn't around so she could cut off more toes, but maybe the rhyme would help her decide anyway. Missy closed her eyes, felt her body sway back and forth.

_Eeney_…

_This little piggy…_

…_meeney…_

_Shaggy boy…_

…_miney…_

_This little piggy…_

…_moe…_

Her fingers brushed the worn wood of the staircase, and Missy smiled to herself as she opened her eyes.

She was going to see Shaggy Boy.

* * *

The edge of the photograph caught fire immediately. Sam watched as the flames crawled up the paper, curled the edges black.

Gabriel Bender sat on that back porch steps so long ago, and he stared at the camera. He was the spitting image of Dean Winchester, except for that shoulder length sandy blonde hair, and it was plain the camera loved him as much as it loved Dean. Gabriel's image stared at Sam, and Sam couldn't help it, he lifted up the thick lock of hair, with a bright yellow ribbon tied around it, and held it up as though Gabriel could see it.

_I promised myself,_ Sam thought. _I promised Dean. Promised I'd get him clear, bring him home safe and sound. _

Sam struck another match as the flames hungrily ate the paper, as Gabriel's face turned to black ash. He held the lock of hair by the end, and then he dropped it into the flames. The hair blackened and twisted into fine yellow sparks and light grey smoke as it burned completely up.

_Fuck you, you son of a bitch, and get the hell out of my brother._

Shaggy Boy had his back to her. Misty smelled smoke in the air.

The voices suddenly vanished inside her head. She felt lighter, lonelier all of a sudden.

_He burned what was in my bible,_ a little voice inside her head purred. Missy's inside voice giggled. _And it's not gonna work._

Gabriel was still here. She knew he was.

Missy remembered. Pretty pictures and memories came flowing back to her, Tree bark, cool and rough underneath her fingertips, yellowed bone and thin strips of grey skin.

The lock of hair was only _part_ of Gabriel, not _all_.

After she killed the freak she'd take his head back to Gabriel, show him that he didn't have to be afraid of him anymore. They'd go someplace safe and warm, and maybe Pa would come too. She didn't know if Pa would let Jerry come. Jerry was sleeping down in the kitchen. He was lazy. Pa wouldn't like that.

_We know a secret._ Missy felt so happy that she'd finally remembered, her feet did a little dance as she ran forward.

This Winchester boy had such a broad, strong back. She wanted to see what he'd look like red and wet and bleeding.

Missy gripped the ax, and swung it at the back of the freak's head.

* * *

Gabriel Bender didn't say a word.

His breath stuttered in his throat as he rose to his feet. Gabriel's fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife. The air was too thick; he couldn't draw it into his lungs. He glanced over at Abraham's body, and his face twisted into a mask of inconsolable grief.

Dead. Abraham was dead. Gone.

Gabriel looked up at the moon above. Hunter's moon. Wolf moon. Clear and bright and merciless. He and Abraham hunted underneath a moon like that many times. They ran smoothly in the dark after their prey, even howled at the moon after the meat was run down and killed. Abraham was_ family_. Hunting was their life's work.

And now Abraham was _gone_.

The moon wavered in Gabriel's vision as more tears came. He couldn't feel Dean anymore, and for a crazy moment Gabe felt like taking the knife to himself, carving a deep damn hole until he could reach in and pull Dean out.

That moment passed.

Gabriel's body moved even though his mind was frozen. He moved in John Winchester's direction, reached out, grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him back down on the ground. Gabriel ignored the choked-off scream of pain as Winchester lost his grip on the steel trap. The jaws closed, bit into his leg again. Gabriel straddled him, bore down on him with his weight.

Gabriel was blinded by tears now.

He raised the knife up, and when he brought it down again Gabe felt the knife stutter in his hand as the blade entered flesh, the knife tip skipped against bone.

John Winchester screamed out, in rage and pain, and Gabriel smiled a little.

* * *

The second part of this chapter (25b) will be posted on Friday.


	26. Ch25b: the lovely bones: promises kept

_**A/N: **_It's Friday. Only one family will walk away from this. Chapter title taken from the movie and book of the same name (_The Lovely Bones_, by Alice Sebold), and I also paraphrased a little bit from Robert Frost (_Stopping in Woods On a Snowy Evening_).

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 25b –the lovely bones: promises kept**_

Sam lunged forward. He saw a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of Missy's face, battered black and blue, yet her eyes were wide open with a feral gleam in them. Her lips skinned back from her teeth in a fierce grin. She looked like a woman who really enjoyed her work.

The blade of the ax skipped down the side of Sam's arm, ripped his shirt sleeve open, scraped off the top layer of skin from the top of his shoulder to his elbow. The pain made his jaw clench, and he could hear Missy mumbling something over and over again.

Too close quarters for him to pull the pistol and shoot her, and the idea of keeping his back to her while he pulled the gun didn't appeal to him, not at all. A chair loaded down with dirty clothes sat nearby, and as Sam moved he turned and kicked at the back of the chair. Just his luck the thing was bolted down to the floor or something. Nothing in this crazy damn place surprised him, not anymore. He really wasn't expecting much, just needed to put something between him and her while he pulled the gun.

Maybe the patron saint of hunters was finally paying attention. The chair left the floor in a flying arc and slammed into Missy, knocked her backwards in a tangle of broken wood and dirty clothes.

Sam turned, pulled the gun out in one smooth motion and raised it as he put his back to the wall.

Missy laughed, high pitched, and gleeful, like a hyena, and the high pitched notes prickled their way up and down Sam's already hyped up nerve endings.

Missy untangled herself from the clothes with a throaty growl, crouched low and ran for the door. Sam squeezed off one shot, and the shot splintered the door frame several inches above her head. She might have been certifiably insane at this very moment, but she wasn't crazy enough to charge again.

She was headed out. Not a good idea. Bobby was still out there, and so was John.

And Dean.

Sam lunged for the doorway. He still couldn't make out what she was saying, and something else nagged at him besides.

Too easy…it had all been way too easy. Sam had hoped this was it, that burning the bible and whatever was in it would end this, but the suspicion had always lurked at the back of his mind: if Abraham Bender had kept a lock of Gabriel's hair as a keepsake, then what the hell did he do with the rest of him?

Sam stopped and listened as Missy pounded her way down the front stairs, and the last piece of the puzzle clicked seamlessly into place.

"Not gonna work…dumb sumbitch thinks that's alla him…not true…I know a secret…that's not all…"

Sam could hear what she was saying; she'd been saying it out loud all along. Missy was talking to herself, and judging from that crazed look on her face Sam doubted that she even knew that she was saying anything out loud.

The bitch sounded happy.

Sam ducked back into the room, dumped the lighter fluid, the salt and the box of matches back into the duffel, just as he heard the front door downstairs slam open.

_Please,_ he prayed to whoever might be listening. _Please…_

Sam grabbed the duffel bag and ran after her.

* * *

Gabriel twisted the knife hilt again.

Everything around John went red hot with pain as the blade dug deeper. John's body bucked upwards, his leg jerked in the bear trap, and as the teeth bit even deeper into his flesh and muscles the motion sent another fresh spasm of agony rocketing up John's spine. His right arm was pinned to his side by Gabriel's leg and boot. John moaned, low and guttural. He stared at Gabriel for a moment, through the pain that jolted through him, and maybe it was a trick of the moonlight, but John could see _Dean_.

Dean's image, a ghost of him, overlaid over Gabe's image. Spiky dark blond hair, freckled skin, green eyes wide with shock and horror, transparent, layered over long sandy blond hair, full lips pulled back in a mocking grin. The glint in Gabe's eyes was wild and sorrowful, grief at the loss of his brother and pure joy at hurting John all mixed together, and even with the tears running down his face Gabriel looked surreal and oddly beautiful underneath the moonlight.

Gabriel looked exactly like the things they hunted. He looked _Other._

Dean stared down, blinked those impossibly long, thick eyelashes at John. His lips moved soundlessly, but John heard him all the same. _Dad, please, 'm sorry. Sorry…_

_I know. I am too, kiddo,_ John thought.

Dean nodded and closed his eyes.

John's muscles shook, but he balled his left hand into a fist, reached up and smashed Gabriel in the side of his face.

John roared.

Gabriel's head snapped to the side; his grip on the knife hilt loosened slightly.

There was a part of John, calm and calculating, separate from the pain, that knew for certain that Dean would bruise like hell after this. That would be visible proof enough to Sam that John had already broken his promise that he wasn't going to hurt Dean.

Right now John didn't have any other options.

John hit him again, hard, then harder, a third time. Gabriel's fingers stuttered open. He sat back on his heels as he straddled John's body. He wiped at the blood on his face, grinned at the blood on his fingers. John raised his arm again.

Gabriel grabbed John by the wrist and squeezed; the bones in John's wrist creaked and nearly snapped. Gabriel pinned John's arm down to his side.

His gaze flickered to John's throat as he reached out for the knife in John's shoulder, and in that moment John knew where the knife was going next. Gabriel smirked. He gripped the knife hilt again.

Someone moved in the bushes, directly ahead, and Gabriel's head snapped up with a snarl.

Blood, purplish black bruises, but he spotted long brown hair, the top of that sky blue dress his girl wore, and it was one of his favorites. He didn't recognize her at first. Gabriel knelt there, scowling at the wreck of her face.

Missy.

Someone was going to pay for doing that. Gabriel smiled down at John Winchester, and pulled back on the knife. Slowly.

He had someone right here, right now.

A little more fun with this bastard, and then he could go be with his girl. A slight twist of the knife, and Papa Winchester shuddered as his eyes rolled up into his head. Not good.

_Want you awake for this,_ Gabriel thought.

None of that mattered after what happened next.

"Hey!" Whoever shouted that out sounded pissed. The sound came from behind. Gabriel still didn't move. He could still easily pull the knife out, slash Winchester's throat open from ear to ear. He would have, but in the next instant the night air was split by the sound of a shotgun blast.

Gabriel jerked at the sound. His back prickled painfully with the expectation of red hot pain in his back and head as the buckshot ripped into him.

That lasted about a couple of seconds, and then Gabe understood. You never hear the shot that kills you. And whoever this was hadn't shot him in the back. They fired into the air. They were trying to save Dean.

His own gun lay on the ground a few feet away, but Missy was in the opposite direction. Her pull on him was stronger. Gabriel half rose and he felt something churn and rage inside his head as he did.

_You sonofabitch…_

Dean.

Weak, mewling Dean.

Gabriel stumbled towards the bushes, towards Missy, and as he did he felt something break open inside him. Weakness washed all through his muscles. His breath rattled in his chest, and his heart thumped and jumped and shook as though someone had their hands around it, squeezing.

_Gotcha_, Dean muttered.

Gabriel grinned anyway, despite the pain. _I messed your family up anyway, didn't I, you worthless sumbitch? Killed your freak brother, and Daddy's not lookin' too good, is he?_

Dean smiled inside Gabriel's head. _Sam's still alive. And he's coming for your freak ass._

The smell of gunpowder filled Gabe's memory. That wide-eyed look of amazement on the freak's face hadn't been a dying declaration, just amazement at the fact that Gabe shot at him twice. And missed him. Twice.

Dean saw to that.

Gabriel lurched forward. The ground underneath his feet felt soft and spongy; he barely felt it as the brush scratched and tore at his skin.

Missy…he had to get to Missy.

His head hurt, worse than it had that time he'd fallen out of that tree and Abe had to carry him back home when they were kids. Where was Abraham? Back at the house, maybe. Gabriel couldn't understand why they were out in the woods anyway.

Moving was like pushing through thick heavy mud that he couldn't see. His knees buckled as he somehow pushed his way forward, and then she was there, his head hurt, and he couldn't understand what happened. Abraham was out here somewhere

Missy held him up, hooked his left arm over her shoulders. He stumbled as they ran. " 's okay, baby, it's okay," she murmured, soft and gentle. "I got you. I got all of you now."

* * *

"Shit! John? John!"

John blinked away the darkness that welled up inside him. His shoulder and right leg screamed soprano now, a symphony of pain. "B-Bobby?"

"Lord, what a mess," Bobby groused. "Wasn't enough for you to step in a bear trap." He nodded towards the knife in John's shoulder. You had to get stuck too? Hold still, you idjit. Let me pry you loose."

John took the shotgun with some hesitation. It was the smart play, keeping the gun handy, just in case Gabriel decided to double back.

John didn't feel good about it. The knife would ahve to stay in for now. He'd bleed out if Bobby took it out.

Bobby scowled at him. "I know what you're thinking. I nearly shot him, too."

John only grunted. As soon as the steel teeth slid out of his skin he began to bleed again. The only saving grace was that the teeth of the trap weren't sharp. That was probably deliberate. The teeth were dull, possibly to hold whoever stepped into the trap.

Sam Winchester eased his way into the clearing with his gun drawn five minutes after John passed the shotgun back and was tearing his overshirt into strips for his leg. John stopped and stared at his youngest son, then jerked his head in the direction Gabriel and Missy went. Sam nodded wordlessly as he angled his way around towards the brush, then disappeared from view. plunged out of sight into it.

John groaned as he tried to gather his legs underneath him. Bobby staggered a little as John leaned on him and he and John stood up together. John looked down at Bobby's damaged foot. "What the hell happened to you?"

Bobby grimaced. "Lost a toe."

John frowned at him. "Who the fuck did that?"

"Who the hell do you think? Come on, Winchester." Bobby hooked John's right arm over his shoulder. "I've had enough of that crazy bitch to last me a lifetime."

* * *

A few yards away Missy found one of the long handled axes stuck waist-high into a tree. She yanked it out while Gabriel stood there, swaying on his feet. He was dull-eyed, tired. He looked like he needed to rest. He was heavy, but Missy put his arm over her shoulder and let him lean into her. She always did like the weight of his body on hers. He stumbled as they walked, but Missy didn't mind. She used the ax like a cane to help them along.

"Just a little further," Missy whispered. "We'll be safe an' warm, Gabe. You'll see." She thought about Pa. He was on the ground over there by that tree back there. His eyes were closed. Well maybe it would be okay for Jerry then too. Pa couldn't get mad at Jerry for sleeping if he was doing the same thing, could he?

"C-cold…" Gabriel whispered. "I was so cold. You came out to see me. You kept me warm…"

Missy grinned. "You were just skin and bones."

"First time I ever saw you…you did…"

They stepped into the clearing. Missy's grin got wider. "Yeah. Here we are."

The tree at the opposite end of the clearing was tall, very large, and old. It had been dead for as long as Missy could remember. The top of the tree had been sheared off in some storm long ago. She stared at what was left of the "spirit stay put" sign Pa had carved head high into the trunk so very long ago.

"I wanna…I wanna go back to the house…" Gabriel muttered.

"Maybe later." Missy sunk the ax into the ground so that the handle stuck up. Gabriel's knees buckled, but she held him up as she guided him over to one of the smaller trees. She managed to get him down on the ground, sat him up with his back to the trunk.

"M-Missy?" Gabriel stared up at her blankly. He sounded like a bewildered four year old. "We gonna…we gonna be all right?"

She cupped his face in her hands, stared loving into those stolen dark green eyes of his. "Sure we are. Pa's gonna be along directly. You'll see." She brushed her lips against his mouth. It wasn't that cold out there, but his broad shoulders shivered and his skin was cold.

Missy knew where she could get something to warm him right up.

She went over to the tree, ran her fingertips over the bark. The opening was still there. She used her knife to pick the mud that she'd stuffed around the edges, and when she'd picked away enough Missy pulled. She got the door open all the way on the second try. The opening was as tall as she was, but wider. Missy yanked the rest of it free, and then set it over on the ground.

Missy looked inside. There was more than enough moonlight coming in from the hole above.

Gabriel's corpse sat slumped over inside the tree trunk. He didn't have any eyes anymore. His jawbone was in his lap now, and all the soft parts of him were long gone. He looked about the same as he did when she saw him years ago. He was still wrapped up in that big ol' handmade quilt, the one that had black and yellow stars. The quilt formed a hood around his head. It had been winter the last time she saw him, and she wanted to make sure he was warm.

Missy needed the quilt. Behind her Gabriel, God's gift to her clothed in Dean Winchester's flesh, sat with his head down, his eyes closed as another tremor shook his body.

When she was ten, when she found this place, marking over that "spirit stay put" sign was the first thing she'd done. It had been cold out then, the dead of winter, and she knew why she'd come out that far away from the house.

…_A-Abra-ham, dun't…_

She could hear Gabriel inside her head.

…_pl-please d-don't hurt me again…_

Pa didn't have the heart to bury Gabriel in the cold ground, not after he realized his mistake and killed Jeremiah and that Jane bitch, so Abraham cut off a lock of Gabriel's hair to remember him by, bundled him up in one of those thick handmade quilts and brought the rest of him out here, put him inside the hollow tree trunk.

Abraham thought Gabriel would like the view. It was pretty.

Abraham didn't realize that Gabriel would get lonely, and drift back to the house.

Missy spent quite a lot of time out there. She touched him, kissed Gabriel's skin. It was leathery, but Missy didn't mind that either. His hair had fallen out by the time Missy found him. She would sneak away from the house, and she'd sit with him, and using what she saw from that picture in the bible she'd imagine long dark eyelashes, wide green eyes and tightly muscled freckled skin all over. He'd smile at her with that full, somewhat crooked mouth of hers, and Missy was content.

She would wait for him.

God would provide. Missy knew He would. And one fine night God provided the boy, that Dean Winchester, so gloriously alive and warm, confused and broken. Missy knew Gabriel would come to her. All good things come to those who wait.

Missy stepped inside the tree trunk, and carefully unwrapped the quilt. She had enough light to see by. Gabriel had drawn into himself a little over the years, and she didn't want to break any part of him off. She was careful as she worked.

Missy had forgotten one thing, though.

Everything has a beginning, a middle and an end.

* * *

Gabriel couldn't feel his fingers or his toes now. Dean was mad at him, and Gabriel couldn't understand why.

_Should have done this years ago_, Dean whispered, and Gabriel felt an electric spark of fear at the anger in Dean's voice. _I'll see you in hell, you sonofabitch…_

Dean settled down around Gabriel's heart, dull and heavy, and that muscle continued to pump, for now. It was slowing down.

Gabriel whimpered. He made a soft sound deep inside his throat, just as Sam Winchester stepped out into the clearing.

* * *

Sam stopped. "D-Dean? Oh God…Dean?"

Dean was pale, and his lips had a slightly bluish tinge around them. Sam stood frozen in place, He lowered his gun, stared at his brother. All he could see was Dean, sitting slumped over against that tree.

Sam stared in the opening fo that large dead tree over on the other side. He saw yellow bone, saw the remains of Old Gabriel staring sightlessly, a tuft of straw-like hair protuding out of his dark, leather-like scalp.

Missy screamed, high, wavering, and shrill. She ran at Sam, and she had that damn knife in her hand.

Sam glanced at the ax sticking out of the ground. He couldn't explain why he did what he did next. It was stupid. He dropped the gun. Doing that went against all the training John had ever drilled into him.

And Sam did it anyway.

_I promised you, Dean,_ Sam thought as he ran forward to meet her. _I promised I'd get you safe and clear._

The wooden handle of the long ax felt glass smooth underneath his fingertips. Sam gripped it and yanked it out of the ground. He felt rageful, and in some distant corner of his mind he could hear Dad giving a Marine lecture on how getting angry like that was useless in a fight.

Sam ignored John's voice, turned off the lecture in his head. Just like that.

Missy snarled at him, and Sam snarled right back at her.

Images flashed through his mind. He saw Bobby, John, bloodied and hurt, and most of all, Dean, trapped all these years because of this bitch and her family. She was the last one, and Sam was determined to take her with him if he had to.

They met in the center of the clearing.

Sam swung the ax at the same time Missy slashed at him with the knife.

Pain, sharp and piercing, stitched its way up from his collarbone to his chin. Sam didn't jerk backwards. He swung the ax, felt the pull in his shoulders as he put his entire weight behind it. Something yellow sparked behind his eyes. He felt bigger than life, full of rage and energy.

There was no resistance, no pull. _Missed her,_ Sam thought.

Missy blinked. A thin red line formed around her neck. She stopped short, turned to look at Gabriel with a confused look on her face.

Her severed head hit the ground first. Her body followed seconds later.

* * *

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right. He was warm, too warm, and it wasn't Missy, Missy wouldn't treat him like this, she wouldn't.

Gabriel heard the crack and pop of burning wood and fabric, smelled what little flesh and bone he had left in this world as it burned. He felt himself jerk upwards and out of the warm flesh, bobbled into the cool night air like a child's wayward balloon. Flames licked hungrily around his face and neck, and when Gabriel opened up his mouth to scream, the flames poured over his spirit and funneled down his wide open throat.

Nothing came out. No one heard him.

* * *

Dean took another shallow breath.

"Come back to me, Dean," Sam whispered softly. "Come back." He shifted his weight slightly, cradled Dean even more tightly. Dean's heart beat slowly against Sam's chest. The rhythm was weak, it stuttered, and once seemed to stop altogether. Sam held his breath, and after a moment's pause Dean's heart beat again, hesitant, unsure.

"Don't do this to me," Sam sobbed, and he sounded desperate and needy and right now he just didn't give a damn. His voice broke. "I got him, Dean. I got Gabriel. I burned him, so you'll just have to come back, you hear me? You have to come back. You can't leave me here alone with Dad, dumbass. You can't."

Dean breathed, slowly, weakly.

"Please, Dean. Please…"

Sam brushed his lips against Dean's forehead. He pleaded, he begged, he whispered "Don't leave, please don't die," over and over into Dean's skin until the words didn't make any sense anymore. He lost track of time, until he realized that Dean was still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

Sam lifted his head and stared down into the dazed, moss green eyes of his brother Dean, gone all these years and finally free.

"S-Sam…" Dean whispered hoarsely.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ There are six more chapters to go. We're now entering the comfort and healing stage of this fic. Ellen, I will also tie up loose ends such as Meg, Jimmy and Castiel, and I'll explain about Katherine Hudak's death. I didn't kill her off trying to be ornery, there was a reason for it, and it has to do with Sam. And of course, Big John Winchester has a playdate with Nathan Beck. Next post will be Tuesday.


	27. better the devil you know

_**A/N:**_ Much thanks to every one who's reviewed, fav'd and lurked!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Supernatural_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 26 - better the devil you know **_

" 'm…'m tired, Sammy," Dean croaked hoarsely.

Sam's heart skipped a beat. He remembered to breathe slowly, calmly, in and out. When he spoke his voice was calmer than he felt inside. "I know you are, Dean." He nodded. "I know."

"…tried…tried to stop it…keep you guys safe…"

"You did, Dean. You did."

"Missy…" Dean swallowed thickly and tried again. Sam hated hearing that bitch's name coming out of Dean's mouth, hated the confused, wheezy quality of Dean's voice even more. "Missy said I'd be here forever. Always said I wasn't going anywhere."

"Missy's gone, Dean." Sam stared at Missy's head and body lying a few feet away. He felt absolutely nothing. Maybe on some level what he did, and the way he did it should have bothered him, but it didn't. "She'll never bother you again. Gabriel's gone too. You're free of them, bro.' Both of them."

Sam's hand began to move on Dean's back, in small circles, just the way Dean had done whenever Sam needed comfort when he was a kid. It was such a small thing, and usually Dean would have shaken the attention off, growled that _he _was the big brother,_ he_ didn't need_ that_, so _get your damn hands off me, right the hell now._

Dean sighed heavily and didn't move. Sam took a deep breath and swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I thought about you. For the last four years I thought about you every damn day. Where you were. If you were okay. You took care of me all those years. You raised me. Now it's my turn."

Dean barely blinked. The look on his face was blank, but oddly alert, too. "…you…came for me…"

Sam nodded. "I did. Dad's coming, Dean. So's Bobby."

There was no need to tell Dean about the Fletcher brothers. Not yet anyway.

Dean closed his eyes and Sam never asked him what he was staring at.

* * *

The reaper floated quietly at the edge of the clearing. She was a slight displacement of dark air, barely noticeable in the moonlight. She waited.

Sam Winchester didn't notice her; Dean Winchester did.

She stared into those hazy green eyes. Damn angels. He'd been touched by one, however slightly. She could tell. They never came out and said what their agenda was. It was always a guessing game with them. She hated puzzles.

His eyes widened slightly as she shifted into the shape she favored the most for work: tall, slender, dark-haired, and female.

She'd been told on more than one occasion that she looked pretty like that.

Dean Winchester had been on the edge, a mere heartbeat away from stepping off into eternity, but he'd pulled back. Good, bad, or indifferent, it made no difference to her kind. The fire had taken care of the spirit, but she still had a job to do.

Winchester looked directly at her. "…you…came for me…" The words came out in a breathy whisper. It wasn't so much a question as a statement. The boy barely blinked as she leaned down, brushed her fingers over his forehead._ You won't remember me. Not your time. Not tonight anyway, kiddo._

He closed his eyes, rested his head on his brother's chest again.

She'd been here many times. The dead here never wanted to leave. There was no reason for that, but she couldn't force them. That wasn't the way things worked. They could've crossed over, but it was a one time offer, and they were trapped inside a cage of their own making. She never concealed anything except the destination. Revealing the great mystery to each soul was against the rules.

She hated this place, but it was time to go to work.

* * *

"Damn it," John muttered to himself. The smell of smoke in the night air prickled his nerves, made him feel very uneasy. Bobby was thrown dangerously off balance as John lurched forward. John ignored the hilt of the knife sticking out of his shoulder. "Come on, Singer, pick up the damn pace." A fresh bolt of white hot pain sizzled its way up John's leg, connected with the throb of the knife, but that didn't stop him from moving forward again.

"Steady, hoss," Bobby groused as he steadied himself. That right foot of his was singing soprano, no doubt calling out for that missing toe of his. That reunion was never gonna happen now. "We got two good legs between the two of us. I hit the ground, we'll have a helluva time getting back up. Just a little further."

Sure enough, John just grunted, and moved forward again. Bobby growled. _Idjit._

The brush ahead thinned out, and it seemed like years passed before they were able to maneuver through it. Bobby and John took one more halting step into the clearing and stopped.

Missy Bender's head and body lay on the ground a few feet away. Her mouth hung open slightly, and the fire danced yellow highlights in her blank dead eyes. She looked surprised at being dead.

Neither John nor Bobby could bring themselves to give a damn.

Tree bark crackled, flames roared through that large old tree over on the other side. Tall flames reached for the sky through that hole in the top of the trunk. Both men could see that the tree was hollow inside. Something dark sat slumped over in the flames, until finally something inside gave way with an explosive pop and the figure sank slowly beneath the wave of yellow flame.

Bobby glanced at John's face; John looked serene, calm, but Bobby wasn't fooled. Not one damn bit. Bobby could feel every quiver, every shake that passed through John's body, and it wasn't just from his injuries. John's boys were his only weakness, and he was worried sick about both of them.

Bobby slowly, gently, turned to look at Sam and Dean.

Sam sat with his back against a tree. His chest, chin, and arm were bloodied, and that made Bobby grimace. That damn crazy girl and her damn knives, probably. Sam rested the back of his head against the tree trunk and looked at them somewhat blankly. He looked tired.

Dean sat on the ground between Sam's legs. He was turned sideways, his head resting on Sam's chest. Dean didn't react to John and Bobby's presence, and his face was in shadow, half hidden by that curtain of thick blond hair. Sam's left hand moved on Dean's back in small, comforting circles.

John looked, and he didn't want to look. He didn't trust any of this, he couldn't, not until he saw for himself. Sam saw the unspoken question on John's face, and he nodded a little.

"Dean?" Sam raised his right hand slowly, and Dean startled a little as he sensed motion near his face. "It's me, okay?"

Dean nodded. Sam very carefully, very slowly carded Dean's hair away from his face.

"Dad's here. So's Bobby." Sam whispered.

"Wh-where?" Dean blinked several times. He was having trouble focusing, and the effort showed on his face as he raised his head.

"Dean?" John called out softly.

Dean's head bobbled as he tracked John's voice. John winced a little at the sight of the bruises. _"It's okay Dad," he could imagine the boy saying. "It's okay."_

_No. No it's not okay._ John's breath caught noisily in his throat.

Bobby pretended not to notice.

Dean's eyes opened a little more, enough for John to see his eye color.

Green. Moss green, now and for freakin' ever.

"Hey, Dad. Bobby," Dean whispered. Too soft, not his usual whiskey smooth growl. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

John untensed. He and Bobby stood there swaying slightly from side to side. Neither one noticed the chill in the air around them, the aches and pains they'd suffered with as they moved along.

_He's back. My boy is back._ John thought. His face felt funny, skin drawn tight over his muscles. He was grinning and his face was damp, but hell, that could have been from the night air.

_Never had a doubt,_ Bobby thought. He ignored the gritty wetness around his eyes.

Sam smiled, warm and genuine, for the first time in four years.

* * *

Abraham Bender was in a foul mood.

He looked down at his body. His damn body, with that bullet hole, neat as could be, right between his eyes.

He was _dead_. He was _dead _and he _knew_ it. This _wasn't_ the way this hunt was supposed to go.

Gabriel let that Dean kid shoot him.

Missy was gone.

Lee wouldn't come near him. He was out there in the shadows, bent over, still trying to keep his insides from spilling out.

Jerry walked out of the brush and his feet didn't touch the ground.

Pa caught sight of that knife in Jerry's throat and he knew the damn fool had gone and gotten himself killed. That made Abraham growl, deep in his throat, and the slap he gave Jerry upside the head was mighty satisfying.

Jerry hadn't left with the bitch. The boy was stupid, but loyal, at least. She'd come to Abraham with the same deal, and _that_ made him even angrier. This was _his_ land, always had been. She wasn't afraid of him, and she didn't seem the least bit impressed.

"You're not getting back into your body," she'd told him. "And that's facts."

When he tried to wrap his hands around her throat she disappeared into thin air.

Abraham could see the others now, the silent dead standing in the dark and deep woods all around, where they'd been hunted, where they had all died.

"What are ya'll lookin' at, huh?" Pa shouted, and the tree branches all around shook and rattled with his anger. "What the hell are you lookin' at?"

* * *

Missy watched the rest of Gabriel burn.

Her neck felt funny. Numb. She could barely feel the ground underneath her feet. She couldn't understand how it all went so wrong. Missy snarled to herself. She could hear the people at her back, that Dean boy and his damn family. The father and the piggy crowded around him and the freak as they stood up.

She gripped her knife tightly in her hand and imagined slashing that boy's throat. He wasn't _hers_ anymore, Gabriel wasn't under his skin anymore. She wanted to see fear in the boy's eyes, wanted to see him suffer as he bled out. Missy turned her head to glare at him, and for a moment it seemed like her head was going to slide right off her body.

Didn't dare go near him. Not now. That shaggy haired freak of a brother was there right next to him.

The voices inside Missy's head roared at her. It was _his_ fault she was like this now.

His fault!

"Hello, Missy."

Missy growled. She went into a half crouch as she turned towards the voice, swung her right arm out and slashed with the knife. She couldn't place the voice at first. Her arm went through something pale and cold, and the cold was so intense it shocked her as it ran up her arm and made her jaws clench together. Missy fell back, hit the ground on her ass, and stared up at the dark haired woman in white.

The woman looked bored. "Well?"

Missy blinked and the woman floated over the ground. Her skin looked wrinkly and pale.

"I want Gabriel," Missy said out loud. She blinked again and the woman looked normal.

Missy glanced past her to watch that damn boy and his family. They were leaving. The boy leaned heavily against his brother as he walked, and it wasn't _fair_, he wasn't _theirs_, not any more, God promised him to her…

"Missy," the woman said sharply.

It suddenly occurred to Missy that she could see right through this one. "Are you dead?"

"Pay attention now. What do you want?"

"I want Gabriel."

The woman smiled. "I can take you to him. He's where he belongs now."

"Are my Pa and my brothers there too?"

"They didn't want to leave. I asked them."

"I want Gabriel." Missy said again.

"Once you leave here, Missy, you can't ever come back here. _Not ever._ That's the way this works."

"But you said you could take me to Gabriel."

"Yes." The woman nodded.

"I want Gabriel," Missy said again.

"I'll take you to him." The woman smiled and reached down. "My name's Tessa."

Missy reached up and took her hand.

She was pulled up, but it felt like she was falling. Falling forward and the blackness rushed up towards her. Lightning flashed inside the black clouds. The place smelled like burnt matches, the ones that Pa would use to light the gas burners on the stove in the kitchen.

The first hook came snaking out of the darkness and sank into the meaty part of Missy's left thigh. The second one stuck itself into her left shoulder, held her in place as the other hooks and chains slid over and around her body.

Missy was turned sideways and there was no ground underneath her. Just the dark clouds and the thunder and the lightning. She saw other people chained up, but the only one she had eyes for hung suspended miles below her.

Gabriel was down there, spreadeagled on his back. He was chained up too, but he had more of them: the chains went in and out of his mouth, eyes, and ears. He hung there limply, and he didn't move.

The chains around Missy's body tightened up. One of them slithered up her chin and the small metal hook pushed its way between her lips. It tasted like bloody metal. It wormed its way down into her stomach, and then punched a hole out of her side. The chain ran itself through Missy, stretched into the vast darkness and attached itself to something, somewhere else.

The chain and the hook were just big enough to stop Missy from talking.

Not being able to talk to Gabriel, not being able to touch him was Hell.

That was the whole point.

Missy screamed.

* * *

Dean laughed, and the sound made the hair on the back of Sam's neck rise up. It was a slightly hysterical bark of laughter; there was no reason for it. Dean's grip on reality hadn't been too tight to begin with, not after all this. Sam understood that. He shifted Dean's weight against his hip, tightened his hand at Dean's waist. _It's all right. We're here._

Dean didn't seem to notice.

Near as Sam could tell they were on the right path going back to the house and the truck. He turned to glance behind him at John and Bobby. They moved along stiffly. It was getting colder out here. Sam figured he could drive the truck to the hospital, once they figured out where "here" was. That was the plan. Worst come to worst, they'd hole up in the house and leave as soon as it got light.

"No." Dean whispered. He tensed up again. Sam felt Dean's heart rev up, saw the panicked look in his older brother's eyes. Dean's lips moved again: "No."

"Dean? What?"

"I chased 'em," Dean mumbled softly. He took another step forward, off to the side. Sam frowned. The Bender house was straight ahead, just past those trees. Dean wanted to veer off to the left.

"Get…get off me." Dean jerked his shoulders. "Get off me!"

Sam tightened his grip.

"I said get the fuck off me!" Dean yelled. One more roll of his broad shoulders, and he shook Sam off. Dean took several stumble steps backwards, away from John, Bobby and Sam.

"Dean?"

"We're…you're gonna take me away from here, right?"

John nodded slowly. "That's the plan." His eyes swept over Dean's face, settled on his eyes. They were still moss green. So what the hell was _this_?

"You don't…you don't have to do that. You can leave me here. You can."

"What?" John stared at his eldest son in utter disbelief.

"Everybody who loves me, leaves me. Everybody. That's the way it goes, _right_? _Right_?" There it was again, that crazy bark of laughter. "I don't belong out there anymore. What, Dad, you wanna take me on a hunt? You gonna trust me out there in the world? After the things I've done here?" Dean shook his head _no_ jerkily. It was obvious he thought that was a very bad idea.

Dean's eyes darted around the woods, searching for something. The dark purplish bruises on his face made his green eyes seem even brighter. Spots of high color made his cheeks rosy. "I chased them through here. I did."

"That wasn't you," Bobby rumbled. "That was Gabriel." Bobby gave John a sideways glance. He couldn't tell whether John was shaking from the cold or from pain. The temperature was dropping and they had to get moving again. Bobby could see his breath, faint and ghost-like, in the still night air.

"No. No." Dean shook his head, rolled his eyes, as though he thought they understood all along, and now Dean knew for sure that they didn't. "That was _me_. I did _that_. Don't you get it?"

They didn't.

Dean swayed from side to side. "What, you think 'm some kinda saint or somethin'? It was _me_. He was right." He jerked his thumb at his chest. "It was _me_."

"Dean, what's the matter?"

For a split second Dean's face twisted into a mask of grief and sadness. The moment passed as he schooled his features into what he thought was an appropriate expression, but the look was off, jittery. He looked like he thought he was going to be punished for what he did, like he deserved to be punished, and he was frankly confused that they hadn't done anything to him. "I hunted _people_, Sam. In these woods. Me._ I_ did it. Right…right over there." Dean's right hand shook as he pointed off to the side. "Here. All through here. I killed…I killed a couple of college kids one night. A...a…boy and a girl. She had long brown hair. She was cute. I tracked them both down. I killed them. Him first, then her."

"Dean, that wasn't you," Sam said quietly.

Dean frowned at him. _How the fuck can you be so damn stupid?_ The words came tumbling out in a mad rush, as though Dean was scared he'd be interrupted again, and they couldn't _do_ that, he had to make them understand how fucked up he really was.

"I had a knife in my hand, a big one, and I ran him down and I thought about _you_, Sam, I thought about you ditchin' me, you leavin' me with Dad, and I killed that boy. I sawed his head off, and then I caught her and I fucked her. She begged me not to and I fucked her and then I stabbed her, and I kept on stabbing her until I put my hands in her body and pulled out her heart, and Abe said I did good, he said I did real good---"

"Dean!" John roared. Dean jerked upright at the command tone in John's voice. "That _wasn't_ you."

Sam inched a little closer. Dean appeared not to notice.

"Dean," Bobby said gruffly. "Your head's not on right."

Dean's head snapped around as he glared at Bobby.

Bobby shrugged. "Gabriel was driving. He was in control. Spirits like that, angry ones, homicidal ones, they leave a residue on things. Same thing if they possess a human. That stuff messes with your head. You had four years of that, boy. Four long years." Bobby waited for the idea to sink in. Dean blinked; that was all. "It's in your system. We got people who can help you, Dean."

"Too late for that." Dean shook his head again. "Too late." Dean sounded hesitant, unsure, like a child making a request that he was certain the adult wouldn't agree to. "You…you take care of Dad and Sam for me," Dean whispered. "Will you do that for me, Bobby?"

All Bobby could do was nod.

Dean turned away, headed for the shadows. Sam was faster. He grabbed Dean's right wrist, grabbed it tight, and as Dean turned around Sam slammed his fist into Dean's face once, hard.

Dean's head rocked back and his knees buckled. He went out like a light, and Sam caught him before he fell.

* * *

_My God…_John stared at the wind chimes made of human bones. He couldn't imagine spending for hours in this godawful place, much less four years. John knew he should be sitting down somewhere, resting. He couldn't. This was the house Dean had lived in for the last four years. This was the place, and he had to see at least part of it. John was keenly aware of the irony, that the last stable home Dean had ever had in his life was the old house back in Lawrence, Kansas.

His hurt shoulder felt like it had doubled in size. He still had the knife in there, but Sam found a roll of duct tape and carefully wound it around John's shoulder so the knife wouldn't move any more than it already had. The kid was busy. He insisted John sit down and allow him to wind duct tape around John's leg as well. It was a typical Winchester field dressing. Didn't feel too bad at that.

Bobby Singer's voice was the only sound in the house; he kept his voice low as he talked on the phone in the kitchen. Bobby kept his back to the body on the floor, and if the thought of being in the same room where Missy Bender performed her bolt cutter pedicure bothered him, Bobby gave no sign.

Jars were everywhere. Jars with human teeth. That one over there had what seemed to be human ears, some of which still had earrings in the pierced holes. He shook his head in disgust, idly ran his fingertips over this cross-like sigil that was carved in each of the door jambs.

Hoodoo signs. With all these remains, this place should have been jumping with vengeful, restless spirits.

Instead it was as quiet as a tomb.

The refrigerator and freezer in the kitchen was stocked with bags of ground meat. John wouldn't have touched any of it if he were starving. His mind immediately came up with an image of Dean sitting at the table with a steaming bowl full of the stuff.

John slammed the door shut on that image. It did no good to think that way.

He barely glanced at the Polaroids stuck onto the refrigerator door. They showed the Benders with the victims after the hunts. John caught a glimpse of Gabriel standing there smiling as he lifted up a dead woman's head, and prompty blanked the image out of his mind.

John limped back down the hallway. It was time to sit down, at least until they were ready to leave. His leg was beginning to bitch again, despite the pressure of the duct tape. He was already thinking about the story they'd tell the staff in the ER. He had several lies ready to tell, but for some reason he was really leaning towards the truth, namely a hunt gone wrong. He was ready to embellish it with minor details: they'd gotten lost in the woods, didn't know what the hell they were doing.

After all these years, John was nothing but flexible.

In the living room Dean lay curled up on his side on the flowered couch. He was wrapped in a brown blanket Sam dug out of one of the closets. Dean's wrists were duct-taped together, and he moved fitfully in his sleep. Sam sat in a chair beside him. He looked up when John walked in, then dropped his eyes to the floor.

Sam's expression was a combination of worry and guilt that made him look years older. John nodded at his youngest and shook his head. "It's okay, Sammy," John said gently.

Sam was unconvinced. That bright, happy smile of his from an hour ago was a faint memory.

Bobby looked grim as he limped out of the kitchen. "Seems like we're stuck here, for the rest of the night, at least."

Stuck? Sam looked puzzled. "What'd Ellen say?"

"Told us to stay put. She's got connections with the phone company. Gonna call in favors, get this location. She's coming with help and a doctor. Until then, we have to sit tight."

"Doctor?" John scowled. "Help? What the hell for, we can head to the nearest hospital---"

"No, John, we can't," Bobby said harshly. "The cops are looking for you. All three of you. Dean, John, and Sam Winchester are considered persons of interest in the death of a Hibbing County deputy, one Kathleen Hudak."

Sam's eyes widened. He forgot how to breathe and couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

* * *

Next post Saturday.


	28. the inbetween place

_**A/N:**_ Over 600 reviews! Dang. Thank you, everyone, for all the reviews and the recc's! This story was already complete, but I added more sections to these last three chapters, so this story will run past the 31 chapters I said it would. I want to include all the comfort I promised the boys would get and deserve, and those loose ends _will_ get tied up. *Grins evilly* Well, most of 'em.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 28 – the in-between place**_

They were in his house.

They were in his damn house with that fucking boy.

Abraham stood in the brush and watched the place with narrowed eyes. Wind lashed through the trees overhead. He didn't move, not even when Jerry appeared out of the darkness. The boy stayed at a safe distance.

He could feel his father's rage, and even he wasn't _that_ stupid to come any closer.

* * *

"Must have been her cop car I saw on at the back gate," Bobby added solemnly. "Ellen says Hudak's throat was slashed."

_Missy,_ Sam thought. That lump in his throat got bigger and harder. He forced air down his throat, willed his chest not to hitch or stutter. Sam saw Kathleen Hudak as she was the last time he'd seen her. There was something warm and sad about her, despite the gun at her hip and the deputy's uniform she wore, like she'd gone through the same thing in her family, but she never would come out and say what it was.

Sam stared at Dean's pale, sleeping face. Dean was here, alive, and Hudak was gone. He'd prayed to whoever, _whatever _was listening for the first outcome; never even imagined the second part, and that sent his nerves vibrating with guilt. If he hadn't called her days ago, she'd still be alive. If he hadn't called her, she wouldn't have gone out to Sweetbriar in the first place, because when he saw her in the parking lot, it was obvious she'd been inside. He could tell by the look she gave him sad, silent (_Go on now. He's inside_) that she'd seen Dean in his padded room.

What was in his mind showed on his face, raw, open, and wounded.

"Don't do that to yourself, Sam," John said gently. Bobby nodded.

"I'm just…I'm just tired, Dad. That's all. Tired of losing people." That was as good an answer as any. He couldn't tell them the rest. They wouldn't understand. Hell, half the time he didn't understand it himself. Sometimes he got so angry about losing people his throat closed up and he left like he was going to strangle.

Sam thought about Missy back there in the clearing, how easily he'd killed her. Sam thought about it, he wanted her dead in the worst way, so when everything around him went yellow it seemed the most natural thing in the world to push all that anger out, direct it down the handle, into the head of the axe.

It was all for Dean. It. Felt. _Right._

Dean groaned out loud, pushed his way halfway out of the brown blanket towards Sam and John, Even after everything he'd said outside about being damaged goods and deserving to be abandoned, he still gravitated toward his family, his_ real_ family, in his sleep. The sight of his wrists duct taped together chilled Sam inside, and he knew that underneath the blanket Dean's ankles were taped together too.

Dean looked young, defenseless. _If I hadn't fucked up back at the cabin you wouldn't be like this. _Sam pulled the blanket back up and around Dean's shoulders; Dean didn't react.

"All right." John huffed wearily. "If we're gonna be here for a while, we gotta secure this place."

Sam stood up, moved away from the chair. "Dad, you shouldn't be moving around much. Bobby, you shouldn't either."

Bobby grunted. "All I did was lose a toe. Just a lil' flap of skin." He nodded toward John. "This idjit should sit his ass down for a while."

John narrowed his eyes. "Idjit, huh?"

"Yep. A whipped dog will holler, Winchester."

Sam stared at his father's face. He looked pale and tired, and beat halfway to hell, and Sam was pretty damn sure that party favor sticking up out of his right shoulder wasn't doing him any big favors either. "Okay. Stay with Dean, Dad. Me and Bobby got this."

John sat down in Sam's chair with a barely audible grunt.

* * *

First thing Bobby did in the kitchen was to pick up his right little toe from the floor.

Sam tried to block Bobby's view of the damn thing. Bobby made a disgusted sound in his throat and bulled his way past the boy. He bent down and picked the little toe up.

Hell. It didn't look real, just a little nub of flesh, pinkish grey, slightly shriveled at the end. He'd cut his toenails straight across a couple of days before, so aside from the blood caked underneath his nail, the damn thing looked clean, at least. His foot was at a low throb now, and the sight of his missing toe didn't provoke any further reaction. It was almost like his body knew that toe was a lost cause and decided to cut its losses.

Bobby huffed a laugh, and Sam stared at him in amazement. "What?" the older man shrugged. "Looks like a peanut."

Sam stared at him.

"Well, it does, junior. Anyway, it's mine. Still is." Bobby slipped it into his vest pocket. "I can say and do anything I want with it, so don't get all girly on me now." Bobby smirked. "Might put it on a key chain when I get back home."

Sam groaned.

Bobby looked down at Jerry's body and shrugged. "You gonna help me get this bastard out of here, or you gonna need another moment with your lady parts?"

"Nope," Sam knelt down and grabbed Jerry by the wrists. "I'm done."

* * *

John shivered.

He reached up to massage that ache in his left shoulder, and he stopped himself when he realized the knife was still in there, anchored securely with duct tape. John wearily dropped his hand back down to his lap.

Dean fidgeted in his sleep. His long dark eyelashes fluttered, his eyes moved frantically behind his eyelids. His fingers jerked and moved, relaxed and then went claw-like. He seemed to be trying to grab on to something.

John hoped the dreams Dean was having were good ones. Playing ball out in the backyard back in Kansas. Quiet moments like that. That was what John hoped, but privately he kind of doubted that.

Another shiver worked its way up John's spine.

_He looks just like his mother with all that hair. _

That sandy blond color was Gabriel's, and as soon as he could John knew Dean was going to get rid of it.

_Getting' kinda shaggy there, kiddo. _

John sat heavily back in the chair. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open. God, he was tired. Beat down, used up. After this he could sleep for a week, and he just might.

_Took all this trouble to get him back. _

John blinked.

_Look at him. More trouble than he was worth. _

He stared down at Dean and his fingers itched with the idea of punching Dean in the face.

_Fucking bastard. Damn kid._

_

* * *

_There was no salt anywhere in the kitchen. Not even in the pantry.

"Huh." Bobby scratched his chin. "So hillbilly cannibals believe in low or no sodium. Freaks. Who knew?"

Sam tossed the empty box of salt back into the trashcan. "Apparently they just ran out." He straightened up, ignored the loud crack in his back when he stood up. "Yeah, we're batting a thousand here."

"Could be worse," the older man said. "It can _always_ get worse."

* * *

_This is my land,_ John thought. _My house._ He looked around the living room with new eyes. He and his boys found that bookcase over there in the town dump. Brought it back in the truck.

Lee, Jerry and Missy were good kids, the best.

He tried not to think of Gabriel. Brother Gabe was lost again, and this time he was pretty sure Gabriel wouldn't be coming back.

John stared at Dean, and he didn't notice the chill in the air all around him. John's skin had taken on a slightly grayish blue tinge to it, and his breath was a lacy white pattern in the air.

He stared at the boy sleeping on the couch, and by God, he got _so damn angry_.

_I took you in that night. Took you in, and now my family's fucked up, because of you. _

John's fingers clenched. He could imagine reaching out, wrapping his broad strong fingers around the boy's throat. He'd enjoy that, seeing those hazy green eyes pop open, all confused and bewildered, enjoy watching the fear in those eyes as the damn kid struggled and wondered why his dear ol' daddy was killing him, watching the life and the light slowly go out.

It was a beautiful thing, but he had other ideas.

John felt his fingers pick at the duct tape wound around the knife handle.

* * *

Jerry had already gone stiff by the time Bobby and Sam lugged him down the back porch stairs. A few feet away from the bottom steps Bobby stepped over to the side and nodded. "Right here's good. They're bringing salt and enough flammables to do the job. Remember we still got those other two in the woods to take care of."

"What else did Ellen say?" Sam let go of his end; he was glad to let go of that cold, dead flesh.

"She's bringing Rufus. And a doctor. Told her that we had Dean back."

Sam grinned a little. "And?"

"She said we'd have some words later. I'm _really _lookin' forward to that." Bobby straightened up. "You remember seeing any salt in that barn of theirs?" He jerked his thumb backwards at the outbuilding.

Sam shook his head. "No. Nothing in there but those cages."

"Damn. Well, let's go look in the basement, then."

* * *

John pulled the knife out of his shoulder.

He ignored the trickle of blood that soaked his clothing as soon as the tip of the blade worked itself free of his flesh. That deep ache he felt, all the way down to his bones, didn't matter. None of it did. He had some carving to do.

John stared hard at that pale, bruised face. The sleeping boy twitched, almost like he knew what was about to happen, and John grinned to himself.

He leaned down, put his lips to the kid's ear as he fisted his jacket collar. "Want you awake for this, you lil' bastard."

* * *

Dean jerked back. He was in the in-between place, not fully awake, but not sound asleep, either.

_Bad,_ he thought wildly. _Gonna be bad._ He tried to push backwards, but there was something wrong with his hands and he couldn't move his feet. He was pulled forwards with a jerk.

"…went to all this fucking trouble…"

Dad sounded mad.

…'_m sorry, 'm sorry 'm like this… _

"…this is the thanks I get from you?"

Abraham sounded mad.

…_sorry I fucked everything up like this…_

"Wake up, you sumbitch!"

Dean jerked his head up and stared right into the eyes of John Winchester.

Dad smiled. Abraham smiled. Dean stared wide-eyed at the bloody tip of the knife that was inches away from his left eye.

"D-Dad?"

John didn't blink.

"A-Abraham? Please, no…"

"You're no kin of mine, boy. Not anymore." Dad tightened his grip on Dean's shirt and his jacket, flipped him over on his back and straddled him on the couch. "Gabe's gone, and you're still here."

"N-not r-real," Dean stuttered. "N-None of t-this is r-real."

Abraham laughed using John's mouth. "You keep thinkin' that, boy. Maybe that'll bring you some comfort while I carve you up."

The left side of John's shirt and jacket was slick with blood. Dean stared at it. Wasn't his, not yet, anyway.

_I deserve this_, Dean thought as the knife descended on him, as the bloody silver blade filled his vision. _I fucked up, fucked it all up ---_

_

* * *

_"Hey!"

Sam was in front. Bobby caught a glimpse of John pressing Dean down on the couch, and the hair on the back of Bobby's neck stood up, stiff and painful. Then Sam charged forward, and that was when Bobby noticed how cold the air in the room was, he could see his breath, he could see Sam's breath, even saw frost on the bloody knife blade as John lifted it up again, and hell, that wasn't _right_, that wasn't right at _all_.

Sam used his height and weight to barrel into John and knock him off balance. He grabbed John by the wrists, pulled his arms out to the sides as he bulled him away from the couch. John bared his teeth as they turned around. He kicked out with both legs. Sam held on despite it all and slammed back first into the wall.

For a moment Bobby saw someone else, a ghost image superimposed over John's face: eyes gone to slits, a thick, grizzled grey beard.

Abraham Bender.

Bobby also saw something else: Sam Winchester's eyes flashed yellow.

Bender's eyes widened, his mouth formed an O of surprise and shock. The image dissolved into thin air. John stiffened; his face went slack and his fingers hooked into claws. The knife clattered onto the floor as John went limp.

The left side of John's shirt and jacket was soaked with blood, and Bobby knew right away where Bender had gotten the knife from.

Bobby lunged forward, landed on his knees awkwardly by the couch and jammed his fingers into the pulse point right underneath Dean's jaw. Dean lay limp, unconscious. His pulse was slow and sluggish but the kid was still breathing. Bobby hiked up his shirt, pulled open his jacket, and then sat back in disbelief at the bare, freckled, unmarked skin. The only sign of damage to Dean was that thin six inch long cut that started just above his left eyebrow then onto his cheek. THe top of the cut on Dean's cheek was deeper than the rest; apparently the tip of the knife skipped Dean's skin like a pebble over the surface of a pond as Sam tackled John. Aside from the bruises Dean already had there on his face there was nothing else, no stab wounds, no cuts other than the one down his face.

Sam slid slowly down the wall with John cradled in his arms. The eldest Winchester's head hung forward. He was out of it, but his color was slowly returning to normal. John was breathing; Bobby could see his chest rise and fall.

Sam wasn't looking too well, by comparison.

A single tear ran out of his left eye, then his right. His jaws clenched tight and he bit down on his lips. He looked like he wanted to scream. Bobby stared at him, a mixture of fear, sadness and revulsion rising up in his gut.

_Yellow eyes. No, I didn't see that. I couldn't have. _

Bobby got up, limped over, knelt down and pulled John's shirt away from his skin. There was a purplish bruise right where the knife had gone in and come out. A large blood stain appeared on the left side of Sam's shirt, in the same exact spot where John's wound was.

Sam flinched. Bobby's hands shook as he pulled Sam's shirt open just in time to see a two inch gaping wound open up in the boy's skin, and then the skin knit back together before Bobby's horrified eyes.

Sam stared up at him, silently searched the older man's face for some hint of understanding.

_Please,_ that look said, _I did it all for my family. Please…_

_God Almighty,_ Bobby thought. _What a mess. _

**A/N: **Next post Friday.


	29. family remains

_**A/N:**_ Chapter title taken from the Supernatural episode of the same name. It fit on more than one level.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 29 – family remains**_

The pain didn't taste as good this time.

Samuel was fearful. That part tasted good, nice and sharp, jagged. Lim could taste the family connection. The pain was from the father this time, confused and rageful, mixed with some one else's anger.

It was filling, but it wasn't what Lim wanted. Layered underneath the concern for his sons, the father was obsessed with hunting and killing down Old Yellow Eye.

Lim had to laugh about that.

_Ah, Samuel. _Lim stirred lazily in the darkness of his charnel pit. _This doesn't pay your debt to me. Not even a little. You will have to do better than this._ _I want more of Dean's pain. _

_

* * *

_Bobby took the knife and carefully cut into the duct tape wound around John's injured right leg. John's flesh should have been red, raw, with deep gashes where the teeth of the bear trap bit into into his flesh. Instead John's flesh was unbroken, with the same purplish-black bruises. Sam hissed through his teeth as he assumed the damage John had taken. Bobby sat back on his knees and watched as blood spotted Sam's jeans in the same pattern.

Sam didn't move when Bobby reached out and lifted up his pant leg just in time to see his skin heal. The boy trembled all over, and it wasn't just from the pain. Sam was slightly wide-eyed, as though he really thought Bobby was going to pull out a gun from somewhere and shoot him in the head.

John groaned. His head lolled from side to side. "What…what the hell just happened?"

Bobby grunted. "Bender. The daddy, I think. He jumped into you, tried to make you hurt Dean. Sam stopped him." The look Bobby shot Sam was sharp, pointed. _And we're gonna talk about that, boy._

John struggled up, wobbling, and the fearful, bewildered look he had was something Bobby never thought he'd see on John Winchester's face. "Dean? Is he---" John stared past Bobby at Dean on the couch. Dean lay quietly on his back, but from that angle John couldn't see his face.

"He's fine." Bobby put the palm of his hand on John's chest, pushed him back against Sam. "Got cut up a little, on his face. Just a scratch."

John deflated. Bobby shook his head ruefully. "Sam and I are gonna salt and burn Bender's ass. You need to stay here with Dean."

"Help me up," John grated out roughly. A few moments later, with Bobby and Sam's help, John sat down heavily in the chair next to the couch. John stared at Dean, his face set in that curiously blank look that Bobby knew all too well. He was inwardly beating himself up for the damage he'd done Dean, however slight.

Dean didn't stir.

"Sam?" Bobby jerked his thumb towards the hallway. "Let's go. Basement."

John slumped forward in his chair. He looked beat, worn down. He stared at the gash and the bruises on Dean's face and appeared not to notice Sam limp as he followed Bobby out.

* * *

Jane was quiet as usual. She didn't say much, hadn't ever since Abraham killed her all those years ago. Jeremiah Bender knew that was okay. She hadn't said much when she was alive, either. He and Jane usually floated around the ceiling of the room Abraham put them in six months ago. They barely paid their bodies any attention anymore.

The human hunters stumbled around in the basement, and Jeremiah knew they'd never find what they were looking for, what they needed.

It was time to show himself. Time to move on and get out of that room.

And it was past time to let Abraham in on the joke.

Jeremiah floated towards the door.

* * *

The basement was just as cluttered as the rest of the house. Wooden barrels pushed into the corners of the rooms, cardboard boxes everywhere, filled with items such as discarded luggage, blood stained clothes that had obviously been taken from the victims. The Benders had been pack rats. They kept just about everything they could from everyone they murdered.

Sam's whole body twitched. "Bobby, I can explain---"

"Oh, you will, all right. You're going to tell your Daddy everything you've been up to for the last four years, Sam."

Sam's expression soured.

"And I mean_ everything_. Who you made a deal with, what you made the deal for.…"

"I did it for Dean," Sam said flatly.

"You sure about that? Are you? Are you that sure of yourself, that something or someone didn't take advantage of that, and use you for whatever they wanted?"

"My business, Bobby. My life." Sam's bitchface came out. He tilted his jaw up and out defiantly, and God help him, Bobby wanted to shake the shit _out_ of him, shake some sense_ into_ him, but it was four years too late for that.

The next thing Bobby knew he fisted Sam's shirt with both hands and slammed him into the wall, hard enough to make the shelves rattle. Sam looked momentarily startled, and then his eyes shone with that hard glint that Bobby was well familiar with. Sam was definitely John Winchester's son, all right.

Bobby tightened his grip to emphasize his point. "It stopped being your business the moment you laid your hands on Dean," the older man hissed. "It stopped being your business the second you healed John."

He kept his voice low. There would be more than enough shouting later on. "My God, Sam, do you even realize what you're playing around with here? Your eyes went yellow."

Sam stopped short.

"They did. When you healed John."

"I thought…I…"

"Thought what?"

"I saw flashes of yellow when I killed Missy." The stunned look on Sam's face was genuine. "I …I didn't know…"

"Whatever this is gets stronger each time you use it. They _want _you to use it. What did you do to Bender?"

Sam shrugged. "I pulled him out of Dad. Weakened him. Made him go away."

"Did you know you could do that?"

"No. I never…I never did that before. I just thought about it…"

"And it happened." Bobby snorted in frustration. "Making deals with demons never turns out well, Sam, even when it's done with the best intentions." He released his grip and stepped back. "Come on. We're wasting time."

Over in the corner there was a wooden barrel filled with what looked like long-handled rakes and hoes. Bobby rummaged through the contents and pulled out two shovels. "Okay now."

"What if we don't find any salt?"

"Fire purifies. We'll just have to make do." Bobby turned around and handed one of the shovels off to Sam. He caught sight of the man in the doorway behind Sam and froze.

The man was tall, with shaggy black hair. The fact that Bobby could see straight through him left no doubt as to what he was.

Sam turned slowly and froze in place.

_I see dead people,_ Bobby thought to himself. _It stops being funny when it starts being you._

The man stared at Bobby and then Sam. The smile on his face was sly and secretive, as though he knew something they didn't. He turned and glided down the hallway, paused in front of the second door on the left just long enough for them to see where he was going.

He floated into the door and vanished.

* * *

Sam reached out in the dark, found the chain for the overhead light and pulled it. He and Bobby stood there in shock for a moment.

"Bobby," Sam said slowly. "Just what the hell happened?"

"Beats me, kid. One of their victims, maybe. There's something in here he wants us to see."

The mummified corpses of a man and a woman sat tied to chairs in the middle of the room. The room was smaller than the others and the walls were lined with stacks of boxes. It didn't take long to go through the boxes. Tucked away in the corner behind the door was three large bags of rock salt.

"All right," Bobby crowed. "We're in business."

Sam found six road flares in a burlap sack in the far corner. He pulled one out and let Bobby get a good look. "Well?"

"First thing we do is lay down a ring of salt around John and Dean." Bobby nodded. "We load the bodies and all into the truck, drive it into the woods. We dig a trench, throw 'em all in, salt them down, siphon the gas out of the tank, and light 'em up. And then you and me are gonna continue that riveting discussion we were having."

Sam nearly groaned out loud. Bobby crooked an eyebrow at him. "Well? Let's get moving." He nodded at the corpses. "Might as well burn these while we're at it."

As he turned to follow Bobby out Sam wondered why the male corpse was grinning like that.

Seemed to be an inside joke.

* * *

John sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He sat still as a statue as Bobby and Sam poured out the salt ring around the perimeter of the room, the doorways and the windowsills. Dean was still asleep.

"Try not to smudge this, you idjit," Bobby muttered softly.

John ignored him. He raised his head, stared directly at Sam.

"Sam," John rumbled. He quirked an eyebrow at his youngest son when the boy looked at him. "When you get back, we need to talk."

All the spit in Sam's mouth dried up. Sam nodded stiffly. "Y-Yessir."

So the old man wasn't as out of it as he made out to be. John knew.

* * *

The truck made this godawful growling sound as Bobby and Sam pulled away from the house. John had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched, and he tensed up. He looked around the room. The salt lines were unbroken.

He glanced down at Dean. The kid lay there quietly, staring up at his father. John felt a cold chill climb up his spine as he looked at the knife cut that slashed downwards across Dean's eye. All it would have taken would have been a little more downward pressure…

_I did that._ The gash, the bruises.

_Mary, please forgive me…_

There was something off about this. Dean looked alert, but he was a little too relaxed, considering that less than twenty minutes before John had come at him with a knife.

John smiled a little. His face felt funny, like it was coated with dried clay and if he smiled too broadly it would crack into a million pieces.

"Hey, Dean."

"Hey, Dad." The words came out in a hoarse croak. "My face hurts."

"I know." John nodded. "It's been a wild night."

"It's…it's okay Dad," the boy whispered. "It is."

John's heart sank. So Dean remembered John hitting him when Gabriel had the knife. "No, Dean. It's not okay."

Dean coughed, a rough, grating sound.

"You need anything, dude?" John leaned forward.

Dean blinked hazily. "Water. 'm kinda dry."

"Sure. Sure." John got up and carefully stepped over the salt ring. He went into the kitchen, rambled through the cabinets until he found a tall glass that looked clean at least, and then he filled it with tap water. While he was in there John remembered Dean's wrists and ankles were duct taped together, so he brought the glass and one of the sharp knives back with him.

"Okay. Hold on." John set the glass on the floor, then helped Dean sit up. If the kid was going to freak out, now would be the time and John was not going to blame him when he did.

Dean looked at the knife in John's hand and didn't react. He just sat there calmly as John used the knife to saw through the duct tape and peel it away from his skin and his pant legs. John sat down beside him and reached down for the glass.

_He doesn't remember seeing me with the knife before this. __My God. He doesn't …_

Dean gripped the glass with both hands.

"Easy now. Drink it slow."

Dean nodded and took a sip.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Dean swallowed. "Sam and me. In the woods." He raised the glass again, drank slowly.

John waited. "Nothing after that?"

Dean shook his head. That puzzled look on his face was the real deal; he didn't have a clue what John was talking about. His fingers shook when he lowered the empty glass. John took it and set it down on the floor on his far side.

"I remember yelling." Dean grimaced as he hunched his shoulders up, pulled the brown blanket closer around his shoulders.

"Uh huh."

"Was…was that me?"

"Yeah. No sweat, kiddo. After all you've been through I think you earned the right to bitch."

Dean drew back suddenly. John didn't miss the way his eyes widened and he shifted his weight to his right. "Damn," Dean hissed. His face twisted up.

"What's the matter?"

"My left leg gets like this sometimes. Geez," Dean gasped. He leaned forward, hooked the fingers of his right hand into the arm of the couch. Dean tried to lift himself up but only succeeded in falling back against the seat. Eyes wide and suddenly glazed over with pain, he turned towards John with a stricken look on his face.

"I gotta…gotta walk this off. Pa hit me with the truck that night," Dean mumbled. He wasn't aware he'd said_ Pa_ instead of _Abraham_. John let it pass.

"Come on, bud," John slid over, hooked Dean's left arm over his shoulder, and stood up, taking Dean with him. Dean exhaled, one long, jerky stutter of breath. He closed his eyes as he leaned into John, and his lips tightened into a hard, thin line as he forced himself to straighten his left leg out. The first step he took with John's help could only be described as a stumble hop. The second one wasn't much better.

"Oh crap, that friggin' hurts," Dean muttered. Third step, and he put his full weight down. Dean nearly went bug-eyed with pain. That throbbing ache reached deep inside his muscles. "Geez…uh, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Talk to me."

"What?" John tightened his grip around Dean's waist and his wrist. Since John was doing the driving, he carefully maneuvered around the couch. He didn't dare break the salt lines. They were in the clear, but John still wanted to make sure.

"T-Talk to me," Dean gasped. "I…I mean…" Another step, and Dean nearly doubled over from the red hot agony that shot from his leg to his spine. "Damn…if you shot me now… you'd be doin' me a favor…"

John chuckled darkly. "Not an option, princess."

"Didn't think… I'd be…that lucky." Dean bared his teeth, breathed in and out in short, quick bursts. "So…talk to me."

"What about?"

"Something. Anything. I just…_shit_. _Oh, shit_!"

John frowned, then the skin around his eyes crinkled a little. "Okay. When you were a baby, and you were just learning to crawl…"

Another jolt of pain made Dean jerk upright, but he didn't react like that just because of that. Damn. Wasn't expecting something like this at all. He'd expected a marine lecture. Something about a hunt John had gone on. Anything but this…

"Your Mom and I would find you in all kinds of places. In the hall closet a lot of times. Never could figure out how in the hell you managed to open the door by yourself, but you did."

They made the first complete circuit around the couch. John walked. Dean stumbled along, hissing and panting. "Once you discovered the back door to the yard we installed extra locks. Put an extra one on the front door too. Did any of that work?" John shook his head. "Hell no. We couldn't keep you off the damn stairs. Baby gates? Huh. That was a waste of money. Mary was worried about you falling, so I went out and got two of 'em."

Another step, a few more after that. Two times around. The muscles in Dean's leg still sang out loud and clear, but the pain lessened, just a bit. Every other step wasn't that bad.

"Put one at the top of the stairs, and one at the bottom. You sat at the top of the stairs and watched me install the second gate. The next thing I knew that top gate was open and you were headed downstairs." John grunted in amusement. The skin around John's eyes crinkled as he looked at Dean and smiled. "I gave up at that point. I knew when I was beat."

Dean looked away quickly, had to bite his lips against the words that he wanted to say just then: _Thank you for not giving up on me this time. _How lame was that? He wanted to say the words, but instead he tightened his grip around John, a simple, lingering squeeze that said it all: _Thanks, Dad._

John returned the gesture:_ No problem, kiddo. _

This wasn't a chick flick moment. Oh, hell _no_. They'd always been able to talk to each other like that, without words. No need to get emo about it.

A few more turns around the couch. They walked, and John talked. His left leg still hurt, but Dean didn't mind at all.

* * *

Abraham clung to his body as the freak and the older man put him into the pit. He didn't dare reach out and do anything. That shaggy haired freak had already hurt him once. It was over.

Abraham was done.

Jane was here, and so was Jeremiah. Both parts of Missy were too, and Jerry's body was the last to go in.

Jeremiah grinned, and he kept right on grinning, even as the flames surged up around them.

The air filled with flaming embers and bits of hot ash. Abraham opened his mouth to scream and inhaled salt and flame instead.

_Me an' Janey weren't gonna leave without ya. See you in Hell, brother. _

Abraham finally got the joke.

* * *

Next post: Wednesday


	30. waking dreams and nightmares

_**A/N:**_ Thanks, SciFiNutTX. I owe ya!

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**_Chapter 30 – waking dreams and nightmares _**

Missouri Moseley woke up smiling.

That was a rare thing, especially these past months. The constant pain she'd felt during her dreams faded to a distant echo in her body as she turned over on her side in bed.

_There was no need for you to go to that crossroads, John Winchester,_ she thought sleepily. _Remember that. The Lord works in mysterious ways._

Other nights Missouri dreamed of blood, death and fire, but this night she dreamed of a wide eyed boy, a green-eyed wayward son finally re-united with his family after four long years.

* * *

Sam talked about the deal he'd made with Lim. Bobby listened, and it was a damn relief.

They won't want me around after this, Sam thought. This'll make leaving that much easier.

Bobby's face was unreadable. The light from the Bender funeral pyre cast flickering light that didn't seem to reach into the shadows underneath that trucker's cap of his.

Dean had already made his feelings on what Sam had done perfectly clear: _"You using me as an excuse now, Sam? Is that it? You did this to help me?" _Telling Dad the part about Sam's eyes turning yellow, well, _that_ would be the icing on the cake.

The flames finally died down and went out for good. The darkness and the cold rushed in to fill the empty spaces.

There was just enough gas left in the truck's tank to make it back to the house. Sam drove; Bobby rode shotgun. They parked in the back and came in through the kitchen.

* * *

"Singer," John said tersely as he rose up out of the chair. "You stay with Dean, okay? Sam and I have some things to discuss."

Bobby limped over to the nearest chair and sat down with a tired grunt. Sam stood in the hallway. The muscles in his back and shoulders were already tense, thrumming like overstrung wire.

Dean cleared his throat. "I'm awake." He sat up and slowly swung his legs over. He didn't even glance in Sam's direction, just huddled there on the couch with that brown blanket pulled around his shoulders.

"Dean, you don't have to listen to this," John drawled.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Dean leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, head down, eyes closed.

_They're in this together,_ Sam thought. _Dean can't stand the sight of me._

"All right," John said quietly. He didn't sit back down. Instead he went over and stood in front of the fireplace. He dropped his gaze on Sam like a gunsight. "Let's hear it."

Sam spoke the words he never thought he'd have to say to John and Dean. He finally ran out of words to say. Dean didn't move, just sat there as still as a statue.

"Your eyes turned yellow," John said flatly.

Sam nodded. "I…I saw flashes. I didn't know until Bobby told me."

"Jesus." John turned, swept the books and jars off the mantle place with both hands. "I don't believe this. _I just don't fucking believe this!_" he raged as he turned to face Sam. "There's only one bastard I know of that has yellow eyes, and that's the sonofabitch that killed Mary. It killed your mother. My wife. It killed your girl, Jessica. And what did you _do_, Sam? You ran right out and somehow you gave yourself to it. It made you its bitch."

"I didn't know ---"

"You didn't know," John repeated as he walked forward.

Dean didn't move, never lifted his head up.

John's right hand curled up into a fist. "As much as I've taught you about these bastards, and all you can say is you didn't know."

It was just like old times, the bad times, the arguments that became louder as Sam grew older, angrier.

"What else was I supposed to _do_, Dad? You came, and you stayed four months. Four lousy months, and then you ditched me." Sam smiled, bright and merciless. "That's a record for you, isn't it? A personal best?"

John's anger filled the space between them. "I'm to blame for what_ you _did, Sam? Is that it?' John bared his teeth. "You had my damn number. You could have called me before you did anything."

John's right hand curled up into a fist.

_All right, then, _Sam thought. He was alone in this, utterly alone _(Dean doesn't care anymore, he doesn't)_, and that was what made this easier and harder at the same time.

John pushed forward.

Dean pushed back. "That's enough."

John only had eyes for Sam. He pushed forward again, fists clenched, and Dean pushed him back. "_I said that's enough!_"

Sam stood frozen in place. All he could do was stare at the sight of his older brother as he stood in front of John and refused to move.

"Dean?" John grated out. He dropped his gaze on Dean like a gunsight. "_Move_. _Now_."

"Don't do this, Dad," Dean growled. "Don't. "

"Dean," John said flatly. "I don't think you heard what Sam said." Defending Sam came easily to Dean, but he'd realize his mistake and back down, John was sure of that. Dean was the peacemaker, the good son, the buffer between John and Sam. Always had been, always would be. Nothing would ever change_ that_.

"Yeah. I heard him." Dean drew himself up to his full height. "I don't think _you_ heard _me_. What's done is done. It's over, and you need to back off. Right friggin' _now_."

Bobby grunted in surprise.

The startled look on Sam's face showed he was just as shocked as John was.

"You don't abandon your family. You don't turn against them. Not for any reason," Dean said. He sounded eerily like Gabriel had in the barn, right after he butchered Lee with that knife. John couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stared at Dean's eyes, searched for some hint of darkness, unwilling to believe any of this. Maybe there was some faint echo of Gabriel inside Dean. That was it. Had to be…

"Christo," John said out loud.

Nothing.

"That what you think this is? That I'm _possessed_?" The corners of Dean's lips twitched upwards into a smirk, his moss green eyes alight with a defiant glint. The bruises on his face and that slash mark down his brow and cheek gave him a wild, damaged beauty. "This is _me_, Dad. Gabriel's gone."

A cold chill wormed its way up John's spine. He recognized Dean's stance: relaxed and easy, which was just as deceptive as hell. John was all too familiar with Dean's body language. After all, he'd trained the kid, honed his skills relentlessly with Marine lectures, sparring sessions and endurance runs. It seemed perfectly natural to point his eldest son at whatever fugly they were hunting and unleash him.

Dean was ready to lash out, primed to explode, but this time all that violence, all that energy, was directed at John, or it would be, the moment John crossed the line Dean had drawn in the sand, and that line involved Sam.

_If you push this,_ that hard stare of Dean's clearly said, _I'll fight you._

_And I don't know if I can win or not,_ John thought.

There was a time to fight, and a time to stand down.

Dean and John stared at each other for a moment that seemed to drag on forever.

John stepped back.

"All right," John nodded. "Okay." He raised both hands chest high, palms out. Dean stared at John's eyes, and what he saw in them made him nod slightly.

Sam stood there frozen in shock.

John turned and walked out, and after a moment or so Bobby stood up and limped after him.

* * *

Dean still didn't move until he heard the back screen door bang shut for the second time, then he walked over and sat down on the couch. Sam could see the tension uncoil out of Dean's back and shoulders with every move he made. By the time he turned around and sat down Dean looked pale, unsteady on his feet. No way in hell he would have shown that weakness to John, not while they stood toe to toe.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam said softly. "Thanks." It was all Sam could think to say. "Thanks for sticking up for me."

"You're my brother," Dean huffed softly. "Dad was picking on you. That's _my_ job, not his."

"I thought you hated me for what I did."

"Dude, please." Dean's voice took on a dry, wheezy quality. "I was being an ass about it, okay? Fact is, I would have done the same thing you did. For you or for Dad."

Dean coughed, low and hoarse. Sam went into the kitchen, came back moments later with a glass of water. Dean nodded his thanks and drank it all down slowly.

"When I get better, we'll go hunt that Lim sonofabitch. And Ol' Yeller," Dean muttered roughly. "It'll be like old times."

Sam looked uncertain. "You okay?"

"Oh yeah." Dean leaned back, closed his eyes. "I'm just super."

They both knew_ that_ was a lie.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Were you really gonna kick Dad's ass?"

Dean didn't answer.

* * *

John stood staring out at the woods. The sun was just underneath the horizon. The lingering shadows all around were lighter, but they held on stubbornly, as though they knew their time was up but they were reluctant to leave.

"Never a dull moment with you Winchesters," Bobby drawled. "That was something I never thought I'd see."

That wounded expression in John's dark eyes was something Bobby never expected to see, either. John shook his head. He seemed numb, dazed. "First time I was ever…"

"Afraid of Dean?"

"Yeah."

"He's been gone for four years." Bobby leaned heavily against the railing. "Can't imagine how that was, locked down in his own body like that, unable to stop what was happening all around him. So how'd you think Dean was gonna react, John?"

"What?"

"You were gonna push Sam away. For good. Did you really think Dean was going to just sit there and let you do that?"

"They're my boys. I know what's best for them."

Bobby snorted. "No, you _don't_. You didn't know four years ago and you sure as hell don't know _now_."

John scowled, his right hand curling up into a fist. "This is none of your damned business--"

"Oh, yeah?" Bobby didn't seem impressed or intimidated. "I bled for you, had your back all through this whole thing. Those boys in there are like the sons I never had. That _makes_ it my business, you damn fool. I'm gonna have my say in this, Winchester, so if you wanna take a swing at me, go ahead. You thought things would go right back to the way they were before, with you calling the shots? You're an idiot. Your boys have changed. They need their father now, not some half-assed drill sergeant."

The wall phone in the kitchen rang. Bobby pushed himself up off the railing.

"Ellen, that better be you," he grumbled to himself as he limped back into the house. "Don't know how much more of this drama I can take."

* * *

Five minutes later Bobby came out of the Bender kitchen for the last time. "That was Ellen," he drawled to the boys. "They're twenty minutes out."

Dean shrugged out of the blanket. He walked out to the back porch, Sam trailing him like he always did.

"Dad, can I borrow that knife?"

Dean and John stared at each other for a long moment. This was the closest Dean would come to offering an apology to John, Dean's new way of saying, _I'm not mad at you, Dad._ They were on new ground now, laying down and testing new boundaries. The space of four years gone was still between them, like a wall, but there were gaps in the wall now.

John finally nodded, pulled the knife out of his jacket pocket and handed it over, hilt first. Dean very pointedly didn't look at Sam, just straight ahead as he walked down the porch steps.

Whatever this was, Sam didn't like it. His bitchface came out at the sight of the knife in Dean's hand. "Dean?"

Dean didn't answer. He stared at the woods, and the deep breath he took made his shoulders hitch slightly. He turned towards the truck, on the driver's side, stared fixedly at himself in the rear view mirror. Dean's face went blank with concentration. Sunlight glinted off the blade in his hand. Dean reached up, pulled down a strand of hair over his forehead. He held it taut between his fingers. A flick of his wrist, and the hair was cut. The long strand floated lazily down to the ground, and Dean was already cutting the next hank of hair, and the next.

He moved slowly at first, did the same thing all around his hairline.

Sam relaxed. Okay. This wasn't unexpected.

What happened next, was.

Dean's face twisted as his mask slipped entirely. The look on his face was suddenly raw, open, and vulnerable, his motions became more frantic as he used the knife to cut more hair off. His body shook as he continued to cut.

"Dean?" Sam muttered.

No answer.

Sam put his foot on the top step when John called him. "Sam?"

It wasn't John's command voice. Not quite. Sam stopped and looked back at John.

John's voice softened. "Leave him be, Sam. Leave him be."

Sam stood there, watched as Dean continued to cut. The ground around him was littered with hair. Dean was wheezing now, but he wouldn't, _couldn't_, stop. Sam understood. Each cut, each slash, each handful of hair that fell to the ground put Dean further and further away from Gabriel Bender, but it wasn't that easy, or that simple. Sam saw it in Dean's eyes.

_"I killed them, right over there…"_

Dean whimpered, low and desperate, and he used the knife again and again, moving faster, the knife blade flashing silver through the air, slicing through more hair, moving so fast Sam was afraid Dean would start cutting himself, slashing himself over and over again.

_"…pulled her heart out. Abraham said I did good…"_

Long strands of hair fell all over his shoulders, down his back. The ground was littered with it. Dean shuddered as though he'd reached the end of his endurance, and he couldn't stand even the slightest touch of hair on his skin anymore.

_"Missy said I'd never leave here. Missy said…"_

Dean threw the knife down. He grunted as he jerked his jacket off, peeled his tee shirt off and dropped it to the ground.

_Gabriel ran through the ink black woods…_

Dean shook himself all over, a long, convulsive tremor that rippled through his body. He bent over, raked his hands through his hair, claw-like, batted at his bare skin.

_Dean ran too, through the silver moonlight, spilling blood, laughing, trailing silent screams only he could hear…_

All Sam could do was stare. Dean was still muscular, still broad-shouldered, but he'd lost weight. Sam could see that. That sandy blond color was startling enough but with his hair shorter now, uneven in spots, Dean looked more like himself now at least, despite the fading bruises and the slashmark down his right side. He stood there, wide-eyed, chest heaving, staring at and through John, Sam and Bobby. Dean's eyes were glazed over with a horrible blankness, lost, still somewhere else.

"Dean?" John said out loud. The gentle, warm tone of his voice made Sam stare at him in disbelief. "It's all right. Come on back now."

Sam saw awareness come back to his brother's eyes, and it was even more terrible than that silent blankness.

Dean took one deep breath that made his chest hitch, then another, and after a minute or so his breathing slowed down, evened out. He stared at Sam, then John, and then Bobby, stared at them so long and hard it was like he was memorizing their faces. Dean swayed from side to side, then he leaned down and picked up his shirt and his jacket. He shook out his clothes with a snap of his wrist and walked to the side of the house.

Sam followed him. John and Bobby didn't say a word.

By the time Sam rounded the corner Dean had already slipped his clothes back on. He sat with his back against the side of the house, his knees drawn up to his chest. Dean stared into space as he rocked forward and back slightly. He was caught up in a waking dream, images of the last four years flashing endlessly behind his eyes.

_A-Abra-ham…p-pleas'…dun' hurt me…any…mor'…_

_You're not the one I want, Dean._

_God sent you back to me. He forgave me for my sins…_

_No, please don't kill me, nononono…_

"Dean?" Sam whispered softly. "Dude, I'm here."

_…this is going to make you feel better, John…_

_If you want a baby I'll go get you one. _

"It's Sam. I'm here, Dean. I'm here."

Dean's forward rocking motion slowed.

Sam sat down right next to him, close enough so that their shoulders brushed together.

_I'm here. _

Sam pressed his shoulder into Dean's a little bit more. The touch was light, but it was just enough.

_I'm here. _

Enough to quiet the voices…

_I'm here._

Enough to make the images fade, to grey, then to black.

Dean stopped rocking.

_Sam's here._

* * *

She knew better than to run, but she did it anyway. No sense in making it easy for them.

Meg didn't scream as the hellhound sank its teeth into her right leg. She'd burned through a lot of meatsuits in the last few weeks, and the one she was in now was young, male, and very strong, but it wasn't enough. Humans were fragile and could stand only so much abuse.

Her femur snapped in two as she hit the ground. Another snap of those gaping jaws, and her left leg sheared off.

There would be no more running after that.

The hellhound huffed, and instead of ripping into the meatsuit she wore, it flipped her over and laid down on her instead. Meg scowled as she struggled against the heavy weight.

_Damn._

That meant he was going to _talk _to her first, and she didn't want to be here for _that_.

The young boy's mouth stretched open wide as she boiled up his throat. A hand clamped down hard over her forehead. She felt heat against her skin, her body gripped by something she couldn't see.

Meg opened her eyes. "Hello, Daddy. You're looking well."

"It's not the years, it's the mileage, huh, kiddo?" Azazel smiled. His eyes swirled murky yellow and smoky black. He was in his favorite meatsuit, that hospital janitor.

"I like hellhounds." Azazel skritched the beast underneath its chin; the hellhound wriggled with pleasure and stretched out its neck. "They're simple. Uncomplicated. You ask them to kill, and they kill. Tell them to heel, and they heel. They do just what I tell them to." His eyes darkened as he stared down at his daughter. "Unlike _some_ demons I know."

"I don't give a damn about your grand master plan anyway," Meg smirked.

"I know you don't." Azazel shook his head. "You never did. All that planning. All the times I went around those damn hillbillies, got inside their minds, planted seeds about Dean, guided them to him. I pretended I was God. Pretty good acting, huh? Gave those hicks a big dose of that ol' time religion."

The hellhound purred like a kitten. Azazel laughed, but his expression darkened once more.

"I didn't want the three of them back together again. That was the whole point. Without Dean around, Sam would have gone down the road I wanted him to. John-boy would have been distracted until it was far too late. Sam owes Lim, but Lim owes _me_. Now Dean's back in the bosom of his loving family, and it's all because of _you_, sweetness."

Meg smirked. "Telling them where he was? That was fun. Dean's busted, Daddy. Poor little hunter boy's broken in his head and his soul. Besides, I enjoyed seeing the looks of pain on their faces."

"He's not as broken as you might think, especially when it comes to his family. He's their heart. John and Sammy are too much alike. Stubborn and obsessed."

The hellhound grumbled when Azazel stopped petting it.

"You gonna send me to my room now, Daddy?" Meg purred.

Azazel nodded.

The hellhound picked up what was left of Meg in its jaws and bounded away. It headed down, and Meg didn't even struggle. It wasn't the first time she'd been dragged back to Hell. She could claw her way back up into the sunshine. She always could before.

Her vessel's eyes glazed over from the heat and his eardrums shattered. That was one of the disadvantages of wearing live meat. Meg couldn't see a thing as the hound came to a stop. She felt something hard underneath her back. She couldn't move her head or arms.

"You've been a bad girl, haven't you?" this voice purred into her left ear.

Meg blinked. The afterimage of the binding sigil burned into her forehead glowed orange against the blackness underneath her eyelids.

She was trapped in that body.

"A-Alastair?"

"Yesss." Alastair ran the jagged tip of his claw around the edge of Meg's left eye. "Did you miss me?"

"No, this isn't right…there--there must be some mistake---"

"Oh, there's no mistake, precious. Daddy said to teach you a lesson, little girl." Alastair tapped her right cheek with his knife. "Feel free to scream, as loud and as long as you like."

Meg did.

* * *

Next post Saturday. Ellen, Jo and Rufus show up. Bobby has a plan, and Victor Hendrickson pays a visit to Sweetbriar.


	31. persons of interest

_**A/N: **_I've seen at least three different ways to spell Hendrickson's last name, so I'm going with this one.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 31 – persons of interest**_

_Godforsaken_ was the first word that came to Ellen's mind as she turned the van onto the side road. The turn off was barely there; if she blinked she would have missed it entirely, andthat was the whole point. Hunters tend to go for out of the way places, and hunters of humans are no different. The van she drove was a white 2003 Dodge Ram Van with certain modifications, and the irony that a human monster, and not just a hunter, would have found the very same vehicle to be highly useful was not lost on her, either. Ellen tried to suppress the shudder she felt, but she wasn't very successful. Dean had been _here_, all this time, unable to leave, seeing God only knew what on a daily basis.

Bobby had a talent for understatement, which meant that what really happened and the condition he and the Winchesters were in was probably worse than what he'd told her. Doctor Elias Blair hadn't been able to make the trip; he was going to meet them at the Roadhouse after he stitched up two damn fool hunters who'd run afoul of a black dog.

"We're fine, Harvelle," Bobby growled over the phone the last time Ellen called him. "Just get out here and pick us up."

A quick glance in her rear view mirror told her that Rufus was right behind her. His dusty black pick-up truck moved slowly over the rough road. No cops, no road blocks, not yet, anyway. Sweetbriar Hospital was in the opposite direction, further on up the highway, nearly half a state away.

Joanna Beth sat slouched down in the passenger seat. Jo's body language was closed off: her arms folded across her chest, head tilted to one side. She stared blankly at the woods. The look on her face was distant, unreadable.

"I told you, you didn't have to come," Ellen murmured softly. "You could've stayed back at the Roadhouse with Ash and your Daddy."

Jo shrugged. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards slightly. That blank look on her face shifted slightly, became stubborn, mulish. She was pissed off, resented being told an obvious fact.

Ellen added, not unkindly, "For the last three and a half years you told John and Sam that they were wasting their time looking for Dean, honey."

Jo shifted slightly in her seat. She flicked a quick, sideways glance at her mother. "So what are you saying, Momma?"

"I'm saying don't be surprised at the reception you might get, okay?"

Jo huffed. "I was wrong."

"Yeah. You were. Dead wrong. You own up to it, you'll be fine."

Twenty minutes later Jo and Ellen were at a loss for words.

* * *

Dr. Ephraim Weddington was pissed.

_Try to imagine how little I care,_ Victor Hendrickson thought.

He knew the look, knew that showing up flashing his tin at Sweetbriar State Hospital first thing in the morning was guaranteed to ruffle some feathers. Ah, the perks of the job.

Weddington sat on the other side of his desk, and from the look in his eyes it was apparent he knew none of that psychological bullcrap he was used to dealing out was working. Hendrickson was in charge, and they both knew it. They'd been more than enough bad publicity about Sweetbriar in the last three days; the last thing Weddington needed was news reports that he refused to cooperate with the FBI in the matter of John Doe 317.

Agent Thomas Reidy sat quietly nearby. He was content to watch the show.

Hendrickson opened his briefcase. He pulled out a large color photo of Dean Winchester first, laid it face up on Weddington's desk. The photo was taken at County General Hospital, the night Winchester was first taken into custody.

Dean stared blankly into the camera. "Dean Winchester. John Doe 317."

John Winchester was next. "John Winchester. Or, as your staff knew him, Elroy McGillicuddy."

Reidy snorted. _Oh, Jesus...._

The dirty look Weddington shot him was totally ignored.

"And last, Sam Winchester. AKA Samuel Weston."

Hendrickson tapped Sam's photo with his finger. "Sam was in pre-law at Stanford. Kid got a full ride too. All expenses paid." Weddington's eyes widened slightly when he heard that bit of news.

"Seems like big brother and daddy dearest pulled him back into the family business. Now, Dean and John? Credit card fraud, assault, grave desecration, suspicion of murder, you name it, they've done it." Hendrickson sat back in his chair with a shrug. "Dean dropped off the grid about four years ago. Profilers think maybe he tried to escape, make a life for himself, and it didn't work out. Crazy always rises to the top I guess, which is why he ended up in here."

Weddington's mouth firmed up into a tight, hard line. It was clear he didn't like the use of thr word _crazy_. Hendrickson quirked an eyebrow at the man. "You had wall to wall Winchesters out here, Dr. Weddington. That's _never _a good thing. How long was Dean Winchester here as John Doe 317?"

"Ah, six months."

"Was he violent?"

"When the Dean persona would come out. Dean had another alter. John. John was the dominant one. Mild mannered. Confused. Our head orderly, Nathan Beck, had more experience with Dean. Dean hated him. I never could understand why."

"So you never actually talked to Dean?"

"No. Just John."

"I see. And you taped your sessions with John?"

"Yes." Weddington knew where this was heading, and he clearly didn't like it.

"Agent Reidy and I are headed out to County General to talk to Nathan Beck about the day Deputy Kathleen Hudak died, but we'll be back this afternoon." Hendrickson gathered up the photos, slipped them back into the briefcase. He snapped it closed and stood up, as did Reidy. "We need to see everything you have on John Doe 317, McGillicuddy, and Weston. Employment papers, medical records, the whole nine yards."

Weddington nodded wearily. "I'll have a room set up for you in the business office."

Hendrickson smiled tightly. "Good. We can see ourselves out."

* * *

Jo saw John, Sam and Uncle Bobby first, standing in front of the farmhouse as they pulled into the yard. John and Bobby stood shoulder to shoulder; Sam about a step or two back. She didn't see Dean at first and that bothered her. Her mom said they'd gotten Dean back alive and safe, so where the hell was he?

All three men were bruised and bloodied up, and Jo didn't miss that hard stare Sam fixed on her. She cringed inside; Sam hadn't forgotten what she'd told him on the parking lot of the Roadhouse, not two months after Dean disappeared.

"Dean's dead, Sam. That's why he hasn't he called you or your Dad. He's dead. The sooner you face that, the better off you'll be."

"Fuck you," Sam whispered quietly as he walked to the Impala.

That was the way their conversations went for the next three years. Jo wanted to go up to Sam and apologize for all that. It was stupid. _She_ was stupid and blunt and she talked out of turn, but she didn't know how to unwind the clock back and take those words back.

Jo tried to time her movements so that she opened her door at the same time Ellen did. It was crazy, but she felt like she was a kid again, maybe eight or nine years old. She wanted to hide behind her mom, even though John and Bobby didn't look mad. They were happy to see her.

Sam wasn't.

As Jo walked closer she realized that there was someone standing directly behind John, back to back. She caught a glimpse of unevenly cut, sandy blond hair, pale bruised skin, freckles, and a long, thin red cut down the left brow and cheek. Jo moved away from Ellen in order to get a really good look. What she saw made her freeze in place, and when Ellen stopped short Jo knew she saw him too.

It was Dean.

John and Sam were his anchor. Dean stared at the ground, his eyes half shuttered by those ridiculously long, dark eyelashes.

Sam stepped aside.

"Dean. Honey?" Ellen whispered at last.

Dean nodded. He barely looked up. "Uh…hi." His tone was flat, dull.

It was obvious Ellen wanted to hug Dean. It was just as obvious that Dean didn't want her to. His right hand tightened, curled up into a fist. Something bright and feral flashed in his eyes.

A couple of years ago this German Shepherd dog hung around the dumpster behind the Roadhouse. Jo would feed him, give him scraps on a paper plate when she took the trash out. The dog seemed friendly enough, until Jo tried to pet him one day.

Then the wolf in him came out.

The look in Dean's wide green eyes was exactly the same.

Ellen took a step back. Dean stared at her for a long, hard moment, and then he settled down. He didn't protest as Ellen hugged Bobby, and then John.

After Ellen hugged John, she slapped him in the face.

"What the hell was that for?" John groused. She'd pulled her punch; the blow stung, that was all.

Ellen fixed him with a mock glare. "Why the hell didn't you call me?" she snapped.

John shrugged. He smirked a little. "We had this covered."

Jo saw what happened next.

Dean's expression didn't change, but his right hand came up, his fingers balled up into a fist. He turned towards Ellen, but Sam caught him by the elbow and jerked him back. Dean froze. He stared at Sam.

Sam shook his head _no. _Dean relaxed.

Ellen and John appeared not to notice.

Rufus smirked as he walked up. "Hell, I'm_ glad_ you didn't call me, Winchester." His cocky gaze went from one man to the next as he took in John's bloody clothes, the cuts on Bobby's face, neck and arms, Dean and Sam's general appearance, bruised and disheveled. "You four look like twenty miles of bad road. Jesus!"

"Idjit," Bobby muttered. He limped heavily towards Ellen's van. "Let's go. Don't think I can stand hearing all the witty repartee coming out of your dumb mouth any longer, Tanner."

Jo stared at the house as she brought up the rear. "What…what about the people who lived here?"

"Dead." John shrugged as he followed Bobby. Sam pointedly ignored Jo; so did Dean.

Jo looked stunned. "All..all of them?" she whispered.

"Yep." John nodded. "No great loss."

It took ten minutes to unload the boxes and the false wall from the back of the van. The first wall that was permanently welded in behind the front seats effectively blocked anyone from seeing inside, and air vents in the floorboards of the hidden compartment provided more than enough ventilation.

John and Bobby climbed in first. Sam was next.

Dean was last. He never looked at Jo or Ellen again.

After Jo, Ellen and Rufus finished up, if anyone opened the back doors all they would see would be row after row of boxes.

And not Winchesters.

Jo sat quietly as Ellen turned the van around and headed out.

"Momma," Jo began slowly. "Did you see ---"

"How Dean reacted when I slapped John?" Ellen nodded. "Yeah, I did. Call your Dad, okay?"

Jo nodded as she pulled her cell out of her jacket pocket.

"Tell him to clear everyone out," Ellen said quietly. "Don't think Dean needs to be around a lot of people after what he's been through."

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts, dude," John said quietly. He sat with his back against the front wall. "Ellen's a friend, Dean. She's family. So's Jo."

Sam snorted in disbelief. "Jo told me to stop looking for Dean, Dad. She always told me I was wasting my time."

John rolled his eyes. "She was wrong, Sam."

Bobby sat with his cap pulled down over his eyes, his arms folded across his chest. He was already snoring softly. It would take a shotgun blast to get him to wake up.

"Well?"

"Jo didn't come get me," Dean said slowly. "None of the Harvelles did."

Sam nodded in silent agreement.

John knew there was more, and he was willing to wait for it.

Dean sat up straighter. "Jo used to talk about how hunting. It was all she talked about, all she said she ever wanted to do."

"So what are you saying, Dean?"

Dean stared down at his hands in his lap. "You saved Bill Harvelle's life on that hunt."

"That's right." John nodded. "I did."

"So I thought we were close. Our families, I mean. We're not." Dean shrugged, as if the fact was painfully obvious. "They didn't come for me. The Harvelles aren't family, Dad. They're not."

"That why you tried to punch Ellen out?"

Dean scowled. "She hit you."

"Dean, Ellen and Bill never gave up on you."

Dean shrugged. "They didn't come looking for me, either. None of them did. You, Sam and Bobby came. They didn't."

John gingerly massaged that space between his eyes. He was getting a headache. Dean had obviously made up his mind about this, and nothing John or Missouri Moseley or anyone could say would convince him otherwise. This was a wall that Dean had slammed down, entirely on his own. It was his version of Us against the World.

"Do me a favor, then, dude. Don't swing on anyone else, okay?" John huffed. "Unless I tell you to."

Dean nodded. Judging from that michievous gleam in their eyes both Sam and Dean liked that idea just fine.

* * *

_**County General Hospital  
One hour later**_

"Dean? Sure," Nathan Beck drawled. He glanced at the photo in Reidy's hand and shook his head. "Kid's a total nutjob. You catch him yet?"

"Not yet. Weddington tells us that you had more interaction than he did with Dean," Hendrickson said. "What was Dean like?"

"What was he like?" Beck repeated. He shifted his weight against the pillows at his back. "Angry. Mad as hell. Kept confusing me with his Dad."

Hendrickson pulled out John Winchester's photo and laid it on Beck's overbed table. "Here's Daddy."

Beck leaned forward, stared at the photo for a moment. "Huh. McGillicuddy. I don't see the resemblance."

"I don't either." Hendrickson snapped. "Look. John Doe 317 was the dominant one, right?"

"Right. John was quiet. Took his meds when I told him to. Did whatever I asked him to. Very cooperative, model patient. He was a regular little ol' puppy dog."

"Were John and Dean aware of each other?"

Beck nodded. "Yeah. I think so. John would get pretty upset whenever Dean would get him in trouble. I felt sorry for him. Having to share the same body with that psycho? That's a tough gig. Dean fought me and my staff every step of the way. Weddington tell you about the stuff Dean drew in his cell with that black magic marker?"

"No." Hendrickson frowned.

"Ward A. Can't think of the cell number off hand. It'll be in his records. We moved John from Ward C to A because of good behavior. He was coming along. Treatments seemed to be working. Kid took a giant slide backward that night when Dean came out."

Reidy looked curious. "How'd he get the magic marker?"

"Beats the hell out of me. Dean was klepto. Had to really watch those hands of his. He'd steal anything that wasn't nailed down. I was curious about what he wrote on the walls, so I surfed the web. Turns out it's Latin. Some half-assed exorcism. Check it out if you don't believe me."

"We will. Now," Hendrickson pulled the third photo out. "Sam Winchester."

Beck nodded. "Uh huh. Sam Weston. You want to know what happened that day? I'll tell you just like I told the local cops. John Winchester shot me. And this one, this Sam, is it? He killed that lady cop."

* * *

If he closed his eyes, they'd leave him.

Everyone did, sooner or later.

Dean sat there and watched Sam, John and Bobby sleep. If he closed his eyes they might disappear, and he didn't want _that_. They came for him. They were the only ones who did. They came for him, bled for him, nearly died for him. They were the only ones who mattered to him now, so Dean kept watch.

Sam looked haggard, tired, fine thin lines already forming around his eyes. It was startling to see lines like that on Sam's face. Dad snored, as usual. Bobby never stopped.

That ache in Dean's left leg was a constant now, a dull throb that promised to rekindle, red and flaring. He massaged his left thigh down to his knee with both hands, dug his fingers deep into his muscles, and the pain eased up. It was only a reprieve. He'd have to walk the pain off again, when they reached the Roadhouse. It was the only thing his body seemed to understand these days.

They were on the highway now. The rough side road turned into smooth pavement. Dean counted off the mileage inside his head, and he didn't need to look outside to know where they were. Half a mile from the house, and yeah, there was that sudden dip in the road. It always caught Lee or Jerry by surprise when they drove.

A mile away from the house, still another half mile to go, then the highway. He was leaving it all behind now, and he wasn't sure exactly what was ahead. Ellen carefully negotiated the bumps in the road. She was as good as Abraham or Gabriel had ever been.

_I thought the Harvelles were family. We were close. I thought they cared about me, but they didn't. You don't abandon family. No matter what, you don't. _

_But they did. _

Those thoughts kept bouncing around inside his skull, like pebbles in an empty soda bottle.

After a while something loosened inside his chest. His eyelids were too heavy now, so he leaned his head against the wall of the van and closed his eyes. Dean could hear and feel the hum of the tires on smooth pavement. It was like a lullaby, and he couldn't put a name to what he was feeling. The sensation felt weird, like something he'd felt a long time ago, when he was a kid. It was taken from him and now it was back, but he didn't trust it. Not entirely.

Flashes of long blonde hair, a bright, warm smile, the smell of clean warm skin and baked cookies.

_Mom_, Dean muttered softly to himself.

It finally came to him, just past the edge of consciousness, just as he drifted away into sleep.

Safe. He felt safe.

* * *

Next post Wednesday.


	32. crazy's on the bus

_**Chapter 32 – crazy's on the bus**_

_Good drugs._ Beck settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He was in the hospital, after all, with a gunshot wound to the chest, so he might as well kick back and enjoy the drug buzz. He wasn't stupid enough to get hooked on the merchandise he manufactured and sold, so he could afford to let loose once in a while. Those devil's sunrise pills? They were for suckers.

And drug whores like John Doe 317.

_FBI agents are __just as clueless as the local cops._ _Dumbasses, every last one of them. _

This was a clusterfuck, no doubt about it, but Beck figured so far he'd covered his ass pretty well. That was the first thought that came to him when he woke up in the ER.

"Shot me…" he whispered out loud. "…tried to stop 'em…"

That was all it took; he didn't have to say anything more than that. Good thing was, it was the truth. Well, sorta. He didn't know who shot him, and he never said who had, until the local cops filled in the blanks about John Doe 317 turning up missing, along with Weston and McGillicuddy going AWOL. It was so damn easy.

Yeah, John was a model patient, all right. "Did whatever I asked him to."

"_Please, I need my meds. Please…"_

"He was a regular little ol' puppy dog."

"_I'll be a good boy. I'll be good."_

Dean was a whole 'nother animal altogether. Truth to tell, John was willing but fucking him was always more interesting because of Dean. John's eyes would lighten and Dean would be out in the world again, confused and pissed off. That panicked look in his eyes as Beck touched him was quite a turn on. Boy had some fight in him, too, and that was just icing on the cake.

Watching the two of them switch back and forth in the same body was the freakiest thing Beck had ever seen, and after all this he finally knew Dean's last name.

_Winchester. Like the rifle, huh? Well, well. _

Boy definitely had some Daddy issues.

Beck was still on shaky ground, and he knew it. According to Doc Weddington Beck was the "Heroic guard injured attempting to block escape" but that could change at any moment and Beck knew it. It was good PR, said just to preserve the good name of the institution, and that was a damn laugh, but hey, whatever worked was fine. Weddington might complain privately, might try to blame him for hiring those Winchesters in the first place, but publicly the doc would have to put on that shit eating grin and back Beck one hundred percent unless things went south.

The main problem now was the guards. Beck understood mob mentality. He thrived on it, used it, from the very first day he'd ever set foot in Sweetbriar. They were still pretty shaken by the freaky way Withers had killed himself, and talk was he'd done it because of bad drugs he'd bought from Beck. That was a lie, of course, but enough idiots will believe a lie that's repeated often enough. Ordinarily the other guards would have come to visit him in the hospital, to show their support. They didn't.

Cal Grissom was the only one who stopped by to see him, and Beck wasn't fooled by that, not one bit. Grissom wanted to be alpha male at Sweetbriar, and who would have thought ol' Calvin had ambitions like that?

"That John Doe kid was nothing but trouble," Grissom said the first night he sat by Beck's bed. "Crazy was definitely on the bus with that one. You're well rid of him."

Beck didn't miss that;_ you're_ well rid of him, not _we're _well rid of him. He pretended the drugs had him groggy; didn't say very much.

Worst come to worst, maybe it was time to move on. He had money saved up, and there was a big wide world waiting for him out there. Five years in one place was long enough.

Beck smiled to himself as he drifted off to sleep. No matter, what he always landed on his feet. Life wasn't _that_ bad, and it was bound to get better.

* * *

Reidy fastened his seat belt, but he didn't even bother to turn on the ignition. He knew the look on his partner's face.

Time to play devil's advocate.

"All right, Vic. Let's hear it."

"Beck's full of it." Hendrickson frowned. "I'm not buying that story of his."

"Okay. Why not?"

"Sam killed Hudak. _Sam Winchester_." Hendrickson tilted his head to one side, quirked an eyebrow at Reidy as though_ that_ was the absolute dumbest thing he'd ever heard of. "Now if he'd said John, I could have seen that. According to what little information we have, Winchester's pretty protective of his boys. Dean? Yeah, I'd like him just fine for this one, but he was on some heavy duty psych meds that day. Dean's crazy. So's John. Not Sam. Crazy doesn't get you a full ride to Stanford."

_Oh, Jesus,_ Reidy thought to himself. _Here we go._ When he got like this Hendrickson was exactly like that cop on _Law and Order_, that Bobby Goren.

Of course, Reidy would never say _that _out loud; no sense in poking the bear.

"Maybe Sam changed."

Hendrickson snorted, which indicated that he didn't think that was very likely. "There's something else that doesn't add up. Beck was unarmed that day. Hudak was armed. She was the bigger threat, exactly the kind of target an ex-Marine like Winchester would go after. Her throat was slashed. If John Winchester shot Beck, why didn't he shoot Hudak too?"

Reidy didn't have an answer for that one. Hendrickson stared out the window at the cars on the parking lot. "Doesn't make sense. Hudak's gun was still strapped in her holster. If she was alive when John shot Beck, she would have heard the gunshot and pulled her pistol. She didn't. That tells me she was dead _before_ Beck was shot. "

"Well, she knew Sam from before, when he played FBI agent, remember?" Reidy huffed. "Sam probably got the drop on her. Maybe she thought she could talk some sense into him. Maybe that's why she never even unstrapped her gun. That makes sense, Vic."

"Too many maybe's. I'm_ still_ not buying it. We have partial boot prints in the brush by the lake that don't match. The Winchesters weren't the only ones up on that hill. Seems mighty peculiar Beck didn't mention _that_." Hendrickson grunted. He flipped open his notebook, glared at the notes he'd taken from Beck.

Reidy chuckled as he turned the ignition on. Any other agent would have taken this case as a slam dunk and called it a day. Hendrickson didn't. He couldn't.

And that was exactly why Reidy enjoyed working with the man.

* * *

Bill Harvelle hooked his walking cane over the lip of the kitchen sink. He leaned against the counter, stood quietly and waited. He could see the back parking lot from where he stood. Ellen and Jo were ten minutes out.

Time was he could lie in wait with the best of them. Not anymore. His days as a hunter ended years ago, but he was still alive, still mostly in one piece, and he had John Winchester to thank for that. Now it was past time to return the favor.

Dean was coming home. Jesus. After all this time.

Jo called hours ago, and she sounded rattled. "Dean's changed, Daddy. He tried to hit Momma."

Ellen's exasperated chuckle was loud and clear, even over the phone line. "He wasn't even close, girl."

Bill laughed. Jo made that annoyed little sound of hers, and Bill was glad to hear it. Better pissed off than scared.

"Dean's been gone for four years, Joanna Beth," Bill drawled softly. "Bet your momma just spooked him, that's all. She has that effect on people."

"I heard that," Ellen growled.

"I'm gonna pay for that later on," Bill rumbled with mock regret.

"You're damn right you are," Ellen called out. Jo giggled, light and cheerful. It was a nice way to end the call, because whatever was going to happen after that wasn't going to be easy or pleasant. Bill decided a long time ago he'd take the good moments where ever he could get them.

Ash shuffled into the kitchen, barefoot and barechested. His eyes were closed, his chin nearly down to his chest, but he made his way unerringly to the refrigerator like a bat using sonar. This one could definitely put a crimp in the Roadhouse's profit margin, and had on more than one occasion.

Bill rolled his eyes.

Ash pulled the door open, hooked his arm inside, fished out a large glass bottle of orange juice without opening his eyes. He twisted open the cap, sniffed it, shrugged, and then drank half the bottle in one gulp.

Ellen's white van pulled onto the lot behind the Roadhouse.

"Ash?" Bill didn't turn away from the window.

Ash's eyes blinked open. His head bobbled a little, and he stared warily at Bill's back. "Yeah, boss?"

"Dean's back."

"Yeah, so I heard. That's why you cleared everybody out."

"Uh huh. Give the kid some room, Dr. Feelgood. No horsing around." Bill picked up his cane and headed out the back door. He didn't bother to wait around for a reply.

"Gotcha." Ash came over to the window just as Jo and Ellen stepped out of the van. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Rufus Tanner pull up in his truck. Good. That meant his services outside would_ not_ be required.

Not that he was going to volunteer his services in the first damn place.

* * *

The floor rocked slightly as the boxes were unloaded.

"All right, boys," John drawled softly. "This is where we get off."

Sam nodded as he blinked sleep from his eyes. Dean sat with his eyes half closed, his hands loosely in his lap. He looked drowsy, relaxed, but John wasn't fooled. Dean had his mask on. John could see the line of tension all through his eldest son's broad shoulders, knew that all Dean needed was something to focus on, a direction to unleash all that ferocity.

At least with Sam there had been some warning.

_"You don't abandon your family. You don't turn against them. Not for any reason."_

Dean had drawn another line in the sand, about John this time. Ellen had crossed it, and Dean hadn't given any warning at all.

_The Harvelles aren't family, Dad. They're not. _

Dean was convinced of that. Living at the Roadhouse for weeks at a time, the kindness Ellen and Bill had shown, growing up with Jo, none of that meant a thing to Dean, not any more.

_"They didn't come looking for me, either. None of them did. You, Sam and Bobby came. They didn't."_

It was twisted, fucked up logic. John could blame the Benders. He could blame Gabriel. Only thing was, all those bastards were dead and gone, and only Dean was left. John tried not to flinch each and every time he looked at Dean's face. As bad as the bruises and cuts were, who the hell knew what else was inside Dean's head?

If Sam hadn't stopped him, Dean would have hit Ellen.

_Scratch that, Winchester._ _Dean would have kicked Ellen's ass._ _And then Jo. If he's like this with people he knows, how the hell will he react to strangers? _

"I could have ridden up front with Ellen," Bobby groused. His left kneecap cracked sharply as he stretched his legs out in front of him. "Hell, no one's looking for me, just you three idjits."

John grimaced as he raised himself up into a crouch. "You shoulda thought of that hours ago, Singer."

Bobby sniffed. "Somebody had to keep you in check back here, Winchester."

"Uh huh. Yeah." John cocked his head to one side. It was quiet; no more noise from the other side of the wall.

He moved forward, gripped the handholds in the wall. "Sam? Give me a hand with this."

John waited until Sam was up and by his side. They lifted up at the same time and walked the wall to the open doors. One more good hard push forward, and John and Sam heaved the wall out onto the parking lot.

"Okay. Sam, help Bobby. Dean's with me."

"Heck with that. Don't need any help, young'un." Bobby got to his feet stiffly, then bent down and crab-walked towards the open doors. He shrugged off Sam's helping hand, stepped down, and limped off to the side. Sam jumped down and waited.

Dean looked up as John approached. "You're with me, bud."

"Okay." Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked out the doors, past John. John knelt, put Dean's right arm over his shoulder.

"Left leg's bad, right?" John muttered as Dean awkwardly bent his legs underneath his body and pushed up.

"Yeah. Crap. Crap!" Dean hissed as he shifted position.

"Okay." John raised up. "Let's go."

Dean barely reacted as Sam positioned himself on Dean's left side, reached out and put Dean's left arm over his shoulder. Sam put his arm around Dean's waist to steady him; Dean stiffened up when they stepped down. He led with his good right leg. The toes of his left leg brushed the ground, sending a shiver of red hot pain through his body.

There was a moment when John wasn't exactly sure what the hell was going to happen next.

Dean looked around, fully expecting to see the Harvelles, or Rufus Tanner on the lot. The muscles in his jaw tightened; his left hand already clenched into a fist.

There was no one else on the parking lot, just Sam, and John and Bobby.

Dean looked around suspiciously, as though he didn't believe any of this. "Where…where…is everybody?"

John's shrug was casual, almost careless. "Bill and Ellen wanted to give you a little room. You just need some extra space, that's all."

"Oh." Dean didn't look convinced. He grimaced, shifted his weight to his right leg. Sam took one small step forward, and so did John. Dean frowned as he stumble-stepped forward. He hated this, hated needing help. The emotion showed in his eyes, a brief flash that was quickly replaced by blankness. Dean looked like he really didn't give a damn, about any and everything.

That look was a lie. John and Sam pretended not to notice.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Dean closed the bathroom door behind him. He was careful not to slam it. He didn't want to bring any more attention to himself than he already had.

He was on fire, and no one else could see it. The burn swept over him, smoldered deep inside him, from his head down to the soles of his feet.

Couldn't tell Sam. And he couldn't tell Dad about the way he really felt. It was crazy.

The way he felt was crazy.

"I'm not crazy," Dean whispered aloud to himself. "I'm not…"

_Dude, that was pathetic, _his voice whispered inside his head._ Pathetic. Crazy people talk to themselves. Duh. You were in the looney bin for six friggin' months and you didn't learn a damn thing. _

The ache in his left leg was fire and ice all at the same time. It burned and throbbed, but he lowered the toilet seat and sat down on it anyway. He whispered to himself, over and over again "Not mine, Gabriel's boots, not mine" as he pulled the boots off, and then the socks.

Dean unzipped his jeans and shimmied them down over his hips, down to his ankles. He couldn't reach down that far because of his hip, but Dean didn't care. He pulled and tugged.

"Not my clothes. They're Gabriel's. They're his…"

_Missy's tongue all wet and slick..._

He could taste Gabriel's memories in his skin

_Beck's mouth and teeth nipping at the short hair at the back of his neck..._

Dean shuddered. He moaned as he leaned forward. He brushed frantically at his head and neck with both hands.

"Not mine…not mine…get off me...you sonsabitches...get off me..."

Dean kicked his legs out of the jeans, and his left hip screamed in pain as he struggled up on his feet again.

"Got to get this off me, right now, right fucking now…"

He limped over to the shower and turned the water on.

Hot. The water had to be hot. As hot as he could stand it.

Dean took the bottle of body wash and the green bath sponge with him when he stepped into the water spray. He soaped himself up, one long line, from his hair, neck, chest and shoulders, down to his knees. The sponge was too soft, and he tossed it aside with a disgusted growl after a moment or so. Dean used his hands instead, dug his fingernails into his skin.

The water stung the gash on his face, and the bruises.

That was okay, They were _his_, they belonged to _him_, belonged to _Dean_, not _Gabriel_.

Dean rubbed and he scrubbed, harder and harder. His skin grew red, but he didn't care. He had to scrub Gabriel off to get to Dean again, and if he kept on scrubbing he'd finally be clean again.

* * *

TBC next week.


	33. the persistence of memory

_**A/N: **_Computer problems suck. Big time. Thank you everyone, for the reviews!

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

_**Chapter 33 - the persistence of memory **_

* * *

Sam sat by Dean's bedside and stared at his sleeping brother. Dean lay curled up on his side. That haircut still didn't look quite right. The color was still wrong, the cut was wildly uneven, with hanks of hair framing Dean's forehead, but he looked peaceful now.

One thing that hadn't changed, after all these years: instead of snoring, Dean still whistled as he slept. He'd broken his nose back when he was twelve.

Dean's chest rose and fell, and occasionally Sam saw a slight hitching motion, as though Dean was having trouble catching his breath. Sam always froze whenever he saw that.

All kinds of scenarios raced though his mind: Dean not breathing, Dean limp and nearly lifeless as his lips turned blue and the life drained out of his body.

Dean exhaled, slow and deep, and Sam relaxed. He knew CPR, was more than ready to use it if he had to.

This new sleeping position of Dean's was only another reminder of how much he'd changed. Out on the road Dean slept on his stomach, with one hand underneath the pillow. He kept one hand on his knife like that at all times. "It's not fear," he'd told Sam one time. "It's precaution."

On the few rare occasions when he felt safe, usually at Bobby's, Dean slept on his back.

Sam couldn't ever remember seeing Dean sleeping in a fetal position like this. He didn't moan or groan in his sleep. There was no sign that he was dreaming about Gabriel or Sweetbriar Hospital. It was good to sit there and watch Dean like that, and Sam hoped Dean was dreaming only good things. Sam hoped that, but he wasn't counting on it.

Dean spent the entire time in the shower while Doc Blair tended to John and Bobby, and after Sam's turn was done John knocked on the bathroom door. Dean came out of the shower like he was going to his own execution, his eyes gone to slits the moment he saw Blair and his doctor's bag and stethoscope.

For a brief second Dean was John Doe 317 again, and Sam could see it, fear and helplessness and pure rage in every line of Dean's body.

"Dean?" John said quietly. "It's all right, son."

This was Dad's command voice, but it was layered with something else. Sam nearly groaned aloud. Dad was in father mode now, and that had to be the worst joke Sam had ever heard. He felt more comfortable with John Winchester the hunter, or John Winchester the drill sergeant. John Winchester the father? Not so much. Kodak moments and heartfelt fatherly understanding was something that Sam really felt he couldn't deal with.

The trouble was, the tone of John's voice worked. Dean settled himself with a visible effort. He stared at John, Sam, and then Bobby, hard, unblinking, and he relaxed enough to allow Blair to examine him.

_He's trying to remember how to be Dean again, but I don't know if he can. He's still not right. I wanted to help him, and I fucked it all up. _

The thought made Sam feel all nervous and jittery inside. He rubbed his hands on the thighs of his jeans to settle himself and that didn't work at all. The ground underneath his feet shifted, slid slideways, and he couldn't get his balance. Things were changing, the damn family was changing, and he couldn't get a grip on anyway of it.

It was nice having Dean on his side. During the constant arguments, especially the ones leading up to the mother of all blow-ups, and Stanford, Dean was the peacemaker, the barrier between John and Sam. He still was in a way, but Dean's attitude change towards the Harvelles was another thing altogether. He'd always enjoyed seeing them, far more than Sam ever did. When he was a kid Dean would practically wriggle from head to toe with pleasure at the prospect of spending some time with Ellen, Bill and Jo. They spent weeks with the Harvelles in the beginning while John hunted, came back to recuperate from hunts gone wrong, from sickness. The Roadhouse was a refuge, a place to rest up from too many days and weeks on the road.

Sam endured the visits like he always did. It was just another reminder that the Winchesters weren't normal, and they didn't have a home. On one level Sam realized that he always resented the Harvelles for that, so it really didn't take much to sour Sam's attitude, especially with all that "Dean is dead" talk Jo had done for the last four years. But the way Dean was now, well…

Sam closed his eyes, leaned forward, and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands_._That dull throb only promised to get worse._ I want my brother back. The old Dean. Macho and stubborn, but I could see the kid in him too. I never told him, figured he'd call me a bitch or a girl, but I miss the old Dean. I do. _

Sam opened his eyes.

Lim straddled Dean in bed.

The demon was dark, spider-like; Dean was pale, still as a statue. It slowly ran its fingers up and down Dean's left shoulder, and then his thigh.

Dean didn't stir.

_Hello, Samuel. _Lim's eyelids clicked as it leaned down. The dark moist slits where its nose would have been flexed wide open as it sniffed at Dean's pale, freshly scrubbed skin. _He's so delectable, Samuel. Such a tender, toothsome morsel, your brother._ Lim's hair tentacles snapped and waved in the air around him as it raised its head and closed its eyes as it savored Dean's scent.

"You can't be here," Sam snarled. "You can't be. Get the hell away from him or ---"

_Or you'll what? _Lim's mouth stretched into a wide merciless grin._ You're dreaming. You do know that, don't you? _It looked down at Dean fondly, and that look made Sam's body tighten. _All this sound and fury around him, and beauty still sleeps. So peaceful. Not a care in the world._

Lim fingered a strand of Dean's hair with its long dark grey claws.

_But you and I know better, don't we, Samuel? _Lim cooed._ You're here, so I'm here too. I'll always be here. Sooner or later you'll pay your debt to me. After all, you wouldn't want Dean to suffer any more, would you? It's the kind thing to do, the brotherly thing. Gabriel's gone, but he's not forgotten. Not really. Dean's body remembers. It will never forget. _

Sam gasped as the scarring on his left hip flared up bright and hot enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.

When Sam opened his eyes again again Lim was gone.

* * *

Downstairs in the kitchen it was just the grown-ups for this family meeting. Bobby, Rufus, Bill and Ellen sat around the kitchen table.

Ash was up in his room, the one place in the Roadhouse that Ellen and Bill considered off limits. What happened in Dr. Feelgood's room stayed there, strictly don't ask, don't tell.

Bill quirked an eyebrow at Ellen. "Jo?"

Ellen shrugged. "She went to town. Movie."

"Oh." Usually Jo would make it her business to hang around Dean. The look on Ellen's face was guarded yet all too obvious. _Talk to you about that later._

Bill nodded.

Bobby grunted to himself as he slowly rolled his right shoulder. He hated shots, always had, and his arm still ached and burned from that damn tetanus shot Doc Blair gave him. Blair wisecracked about Bobby's orphan little toe.

Bobby stared at him deadpan. "You got one helluva bedside manner, Blair."

Blair smiled tightly. "I do what I can." He tossed a small brown bottle of antibiotics at Bobby and nodded in satisfaction as Bobby caught the bottle in mid-air with his left hand.

"You hunters make lousy patients. Two week supply. Take 'em or don't, Singer. Makes no difference to me. And if you don't, go to the nearest ER and see if they care."

Yep. Bobby didn't care much for doctors.

Rufus sat back in his chair and frowned at the half empty beer bottle in his hand. "Now, why are we doing this again? And why the hell should I even listen to you?"

Bobby grunted. Damn, his arm was singing soprano louder than his right foot was. "Either we deal with this now, or deal with it later. You really want some civilians buying that place, thinking everything's all right and normal and it's not? With all those spirits around, they'll be walking into a buzzsaw. It'll get bloody. Very bloody."

Ellen looked thoughtful. "Stop the problem before it even gets started. That's deep, Singer. Real deep."

"I have my moments." Bobby finished off his beer. "Anyway, how the hell do we know that was all of Gabriel in that damn tree? They probably have his jawbone hidden somewhere." He nodded at the ceiling, and everyone knew he was gesturing towards the upwards room where Dean and Sam were. "That man up there needs to know that he doesn't have to worry about that bastard Gabriel ever again."

Rufus drank the rest of his beer. Damn good stuff. "So we're doing this out of some half assed sense of justice?"

"That." Bobby nodded curtly. "And payback is a stone bitch."

* * *

It was time to pay his condolences to the Fletcher family, and that was something John preferred to do in private. The far end of the parking lot behind the Roadhouse was far enough away. There was no need for Dean to become involved, or to make amends. He became quiet when John told him about the Fletcher brothers dying. It was hard to read Dean even on a good day, even before Gabriel Bender.

Aaron Fletcher sat behind the wheel of his truck. He looked up and nodded as John approached. Fletcher looked old and tired. Burying loved ones will definitely do that to a person.

Two days ago the bodies of the Fletcher brothers, Clyde and Emmett, were recovered, salted and burned in a secluded spot of the family farm. John knew the father, Aaron; he'd hunted with him on more than one occasion. John was two states away when that bruja hunt turned bad. Dean somehow managed to kill the damned thing and haul Aaron out of there, busted up, but still alive.

The argument could be made that the Fletcher brothers were at fault. They'd disobeyed John's orders and come anyway, and brought the Benders in right behind them. They got stupid, and they got killed. It was an old hunter's adage. John wondered if things would've worked out for Dean if the Fletcher boys hadn't screwed up like that.

_Mysterious ways, John. _Missouri's voice was a faint whisper in his memory.

"Just wanted to give you my condolences, Aaron. I'm sorry about your boys." John said quietly.

"How're your boys? How's Dean?"

"Fine."

"Good. Good. You take care of your sons, Winchester. A parent should never have to bury their child. It's not thw way things should go." Aaron sniffed noisily. His voice cracked a little, then he straightened up behind the wheel. "The people that killed my sons…Singer tells me they're all dead."

"Every last one of them," John said flatly.

Aaron's mouth firmed into a thin, hard line. "Well…there's still room for some payback." He smiled a little as the back door to the kitchen area opened up and Bobby and Rufus stepped outside. "I'll take what I can get."

"Take care, Aaron."

"I will. You too." John turned away and walked towards Bobby and Rufus. Bobby rolled his right shoulder (_God, that damn doctor was a butcher, couldn't give a damn shot to save his life_), grimaced, then took one look at the expression on John's face and shook his head. "Hell no, you're not going."

"What?"

"I know that look, Winchester. You stay here with your boys." There was no need for Bobby to add: _Neither one of them is quite right now, and you know it._

"Me and Rufus are heading out with Fletcher. Gonna meet up with the others. We'll be back in a day's time, then I'll take the boys back to my place."

"Beck's still in the hospital. When he leaves, I'll know it," John drawled. "His ass belongs to me."

Bobby snorted. "Keeping tabs on that one, huh?"

John chuckled as he walked by. The grin he flashed Bobby was bright and somehow wolfish. "Damn right I am."

* * *

"_Come on baby," Beck whispered. "Come on. Don't hide from me, John. Don't."_

_Beck slid his hand up and down Dean's bare stomach. _

_Dean shuddered. The air in the infirmary was cooler than he remembered. He tried to move away from the touch, but he couldn't. His head felt funny and his legs didn't work right. He looked down at himself. He wasn't strapped down or tied up. All he had on was a pair of light blue scrub pants, and the elastic waistband was pulled down snug over his hipbones. _

_Sweetbriar. He couldn't understand why he was back there._

_He couldn't understand why Dad, Sam and Bobby were there too. They stood around watching as Beck mouthed the side of Dean's jawline. _

_Beck looked at them and rolled his eyes."You really think you're safe around them?"_

_Another light touch, this time across the top of Dean's shoulders. _

"_You want this," Beck whispered. "You always did. That crazy bitch had you for three and a half years, butt I gave you what you really needed, didn't I boy?"_

_Beck traced a pattern with his tongue and mouth down the side of Dean's neck. _

_Oh God, no… Dean felt himself lean into the touch. He screamed inside his mind, but his body had other ideas. His skin felt too tight. _

_Beck's hand slid down Dean's side, and Dean's back arched in response. He was already half hard. He wanted to turn towards Beck, wanted to open his mouth and moan as Beck pressed his lips down firmly onto his._

"_That--that was G-Gabriel," Dean stammered. "That was John. Not me. Not me…"_

_Beck's mouth stopped just underneath his right ear. Dean shuddered as Beck pulled at his earlobe with his mouth._

_Skin. It was Gabriel's skin, not his. Gabriel's. _

"_Dad…Sam…Bobby…please, help me…"_

_They stared at him. They stared at him and they didn't do a damned thing. _

_Beck's hands moved slowly all over Dean's body. The waistband of the scrub pants slipped even lower. _

"_No." Dean said it out loud. He had to. This was a dream. This was a lie. He didn't want this. He didn't, even though his body did. "I'm not John, I'm not—"_

"_You'll always be my boy, Doesn't matter what name you go by." Beck's whisper slithered wetly over Dean's skin. Dean squirmed as Beck dug his fingernails into his hips. "Mine now and forever…"_

"Why the hell aren't you helping me!" Dean yelled.

"Dean? Dean!"

Dean awoke with a jerk. His back and shoulders slammed up against something hard and solid. Wall. He'd backed himself up into the wall behind his bed.

Sam stared at him wide-eyed.

"Dean, wait a minute. Dean!"

Dean rolled out of bed in the opposite direction. He was barely aware of the thump as his feet hit the floor and then he scambled for the bathroom. He held himself tightly, but he was screaming inside.

_I'm not crazy. I'm not. _

Dean slammed the door hard enough to shake the frame.

_Crazy's doing the same thing over and over and expecting something different._

"Dean? Come on, dude, open up!"

It was Sam. Dean ignored him. He turned towards the shower, turned the spray on with a flip of his wrist. The water was warm, and the steam built up rather quickly.

_Didn't go down far enough that's all. _

Dean shucked off his t shirt, shimmied his black boxers off his hips and then quickly kicked them off. The weight of the fabric made his skin crawl.

_Didn't peel enough layers off._

Dean slowly wiped the steam off the mirror with his hand. There was still too much Gabriel there. _Too much_.

The scar down his face? It was a fine thin line, but that was okay. It was Gabriel's, but Dad gave that to him. Dean could claim that.

The hair was Gabriel's still, but he could fix that. Cut it all off, start over again. Get a buzz cut, something.

Freckles across his nose, his chest, shoulders and back. That was _him_. Dean,_ not_ Gabriel.

Dean picked up the soap and stepped into the shower. Water rolled down his broad back in one long silken sheet. He'd lost some weight, but his thighs were still muscular, still tight. His stomach was flat. He still had washboard abs.

Dean soaped the palms of his hands and then rubbed the soap into his skin.

_I had this first, you hear me? Mine first?_

He stared long and hard at the long thin scar straight down the pad of his left thumb.

Gabriel. That was Gabriel.

They'd given the woman they were hunting that night a knife. Gabriel laughed as she swung at him. He didn't notice it until later.

There was a lot of blood, but most of it was hers.

Curved scar across his left bicep. Black dog. Dean smiled tiredly to himself. That was him, that was Dean. He fingered the slightly raised scar tissue. It was slick and wet underneath his finger tips.

Clawmarks around his left ankle. Black dog. Chicago.

Dean.

He ignored the dent in his left hip. That was Gabriel.

At one time Dean actually thought about taking Dad's Bowie knife and carving that part out with the tip of the knife, the way a person would carve out the rotten part of a pear or an apple.

He didn't think like that now. There was more Dean in him. He knew it, didn't doubt it. He'd had over twenty years of being Dean Winchester. Four years of Gabriel Bender couldn't wipe that out.

More soap, more water, and Dean scrubbed harder. He was getting the hang of it now.

* * *

Lee Bender floated in the air above the pit. There was a little less of him nowadays. The other spirits always came after him in swarms, but he recognized a few of the faces: that college kid and his girlfriend, and that older couple he and Jerry had picked up a couple of months before Gabriel arrived. Lee was the last, and the least, and judging from the damage he took it was clear that the other spirits weren't intimated by him at all.

They shrank back in fear from Pa and Gabriel. Jerry's size alone might have given them pause, and even Missy (with or without her knives) would have made them take a step back, but they obviously had Lee's number right from the very start, and all the angry dead there knew it.

Cats sensed the wrongness surrounding the Bender property first. They stayed away. Squirrels were ripped apart, birds were crushed like egg shells. One stray dog, a lab-beagle mix named Boomer, was too stupid to heed the chill in the air, but his dying howls alerted the others in the area to stay away.

The Bender farm became a dead zone. Even bugs and maggots refused to crawl over the boundaries after a time.

The restless dead grew even more angry, and they waited for something bigger to take their rage out on.

* * *

Next post Saturday


	34. a leopard and his spots

_**A/N: **_Computer problems plus Real Life equals major suckage. Much thanks to SciFiNutTX. It's the Winchesters and the Harvelles in this chapter.

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 34 – a leopard and his spots**_

The back door to the kitchen squeaked. Always did, always had, for as long as John could remember. The Roadhouse itself hadn't changed, not all that much, even after all these years. He could almost fool himself into thinking that nothing had really changed. He and his boys were holed up with the Harvelles and it was just like old times.

"Hey, Winchester," Ellen nodded at what was left of the six pack on the table. "Park it for a while."

John nodded his thanks and sat down in the chair Rufus just vacated, next to Ellen. He pulled a bottle out of the cardboard holder, opened it, but he didn't drink until the engine sounds outside faded completely away.

Half the beer went down in a couple of gulps. Good stuff. John sat back in the chair. "Gonna have to put some money down on your water bill. Dean likes his baths."

"I imagine he would." Bill grimaced. "Bender place was that bad, huh?"

"Worse." John raised the bottle to his lips and drank the rest.

"Don't worry about that." Ellen drawled lazily. "Ash can hack into the water company. He does it all the time."

Bill huffed. "Man's gotta earn his keep somehow."

"When you gonna reopen?"

"In a couple of days." Bill shrugged. "Don't get antsy, John. You and the boys stay as long as you like."

"Dean thinks you abandoned him," John shook his head in disbelief. "I don't know where in the hell he got that idea from."

"Kids. They think they know it all and they've got it ass backwards." Ellen rolled her eyes."Jo talked about hunting all the time. After you brought Bill home that night never heard another peep out of her."

Bill sighed. His voice rose in a whiny, singsong version of his daughter's voice. " 'Dean's dead. You should both accept it." He shook his head in amazement. "Christ. I _told_ her not to say things like that to you and Sam. Did she listen? _Hell no. _Look, we know that's why you haven't been around much these last three years."

"No harm done. She was wrong anyway," John sat back in the chair, loose and relaxed. Felt good just to sit around and not do a damn thing.

"You ready for that haircut tomorrow, Winchester?" Ellen's grin was sly and mischievous.

John snorted. He ran his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck; he was getting a little shaggy back there. "As long as you don't scalp me."

"Oh, I dunno." Ellen reached out and ruffled the hair over John's forehead with her fingers. "You might look good bald."

"Hope we don't have to find out. If Dean sees you cut my hair, he'll figure it's okay for him too. Not gonna force him, but I think he needs it."

"That reminds me." Ellen leaned down underneath the table, snagged the brown paper bag on the floor by her feet and plunked it down on the table in front of John. "Here."

John opened the bag and stared at the brightly colored box. "Dark brown, huh?"

Ellen shrugged. "That should work. Dean's hair color is so light now, this oughta even it out."

John yawned. "You ready for breakfast down here tomorrow? Dean's first time in four years."

"He'll be fine." Ellen put the empties back into the six pack carton. "I imagine all this seems a little strange to him. He'll get over it. He just needs to be around normal people again."

Bill scowled. "We're normal?"

Ellen nudged him hard with her shoulder. "All right now, you know what I meant."

* * *

"Dude, we gotta talk about this."

Dean held the bath towel firmly around his waist with one hand. He threw his spare duffel on the bed with the other.

_Aw, crap._ Sam was dead set on talking about this. Ignoring him wouldn't shut him up, or make the subject go away. Dean remembered the good old days when he could growl and intimidate Sam, get him to drop the subject. Seemed like he just didn't have the strength for that any more.

"Well? Come on, Dean," Sam insisted.

Dean's face blanked as he rummaged through his belongings. He could feel a shiver, a tremble, start deep inside his body. The room was heated but he couldn't stay warm on his own. His chest hurt, and his head was starting to throb.

"No, we don't." Dean shook his head, which might have been the wrong thing to do. His vision blurred, then doubled. "Nothing's wrong."

Dean blinked, and then squinted down at the contents of the duffel bag. Sam loomed over him, and Dean really hated that. Sam's height never bothered him before, but it did now.

"Nothing's wrong? You really think that, huh?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah." He watched his fingers shake, and he steeled himself. He snagged a pair of black boxer briefs and a dark green t shirt and yanked them out out of the duffel with one hand.

"Dude, you spend half the day in the shower trying to scrub your skin off. You're pale." If Dean hadn't noticed those things before, Sam was only too happy to point these things out. "You wheeze like an old man sometimes."

Dean's eyes bugged out slightly, and then it happened. A low, hoarse cough hitched its way up out of his chest and throat.

"So there's nothing wrong with you, huh?" Sam smirked in triumph.

Dean coughed so hard his eyes nearly crossed, and without realizing it he cradled his clothes to his chest with one hand as his shoulders shook. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the towel even tighter. Going commando around Sam (or Dad, for that matter) was not an option.

Sam's eyes widened. That smug look on his face vanished in a heartbeat. "Come on, sit down. I'll get you some water---"

"Don't need it," Dean choked out. " 'm fine."

'"Dude, we gotta talk about this---"

"Hell we do." Dean turned, pushed his way past Sam and somehow stumbled back into the bathroom. He slammed the door hard this time.

"I'm not shutting up until you start talking," Sam yelled through the door.

"Jesus, Sam." Dean rolled his eyes as he dropped the towel. "Give it a freakin' rest, will ya?"

His fingers shook and his knees felt wobbly. Crap, he hadn't had this much trouble dressing himself since he was a kid. Dean hooked the t shirt over the doorknob, leaned against the door and slipped on the boxer briefs. The t shirt was next. "I'm okay." He stumbled over to the toilet, lowered the seat and sat down with a hard thump. "I'm fine. End of story."

"Not good enough."

"Yell all you want. I'm not coming out."

"Why the hell do you take so many baths anyway?"

The bathroom window had a steel grate over it. Dean doubted he could climb down without breaking his damn neck anyway. "I'm making up for lost time."

"So you don't feel like yourself."

"I didn't say that, Doctor Phil." Dean put his head down, leaned forward and raked both hands through his hair from back to front. His hands were still warm, at least, but his feet were ice cold. He could barely feel his toes. All this emo talk was worthless. Freaking worthless. All he wanted now was to rest up, but Sam didn't want that, Sam wanted to talk about Dean's _feelings_.

Emo jerk.

Gabriel was gone, but he'd left behind a little gift.

Ectoplasm. That was what Dad and Bobby said, that was the reason Dean wasn't one hundred percent anymore. The crap looked like thick, black syrup, and he already knew it came from angry spirits. He'd seen it on hunts, slimed all over places and things. What he didn't know until now was the effect that same slime would have on a human body. Dean had inside him four years worth of Gabriel's ghost crap, and according to Dad and Bobby said crap sank deep into the fatty tissues of a previously possessed person's body and stayed there. Exorcising the spirit was one thing, getting rid of the crap the damn spook left behind inside was something else.

Talk about the freaking gift that keeps right on giving.

Luck had a way of turning sour whenever the Winchesters were in the area. Poetic irony was a purebred bitch in heat, as always, so it had to figure that Sam had the answer to Dean's problem, right at his fingertips, thanks to that demonic bastard Lim. No way in hell Dean was ever gonna let that happen.

Damn. His chest hurt. His throat was so dry it burned. He needed relief from the way he was feeling.

Dean stumbled as he got up. His head and his body bitched about the sudden change in position, and it was a damn miracle he didn't face plant into the floor when he padded over and leaned forward into the shower stall. He flipped the shower spray on to scalding hot and almost groaned out loud as the steam rose up immediately. It was hot and moist, and his stiff lungs breathed it in gratefully.

Warmth flooded through Dean's body. The congestion in his chest eased and his muscles relaxed. He sat down, leaned his head against the side of the shower door and closed his eyes.

Warmer now.

The world drew away from him, and Dean welcomed it. He could barely hear Sam's voice over the sound of the water. He was safe from Dr. Phil in here, and he wasn't coming out any time soon.

* * *

_Aw crap,_ John thought. _Bitchface. Half the time I don't even know what we're fighting about. He pushes, and I push back…_

Sam turned away from the bathroom door. He pursed his lips and folded his arms across his chest. "Dad, you need to handle this."

"So…what do you want me to do, Sam?" John put the bag containing the hair color on the dresser. The shower in the bathroom was running full blast.

"Dean needs to talk about how he feels," Sam said stiffly.

John laughed. He couldn't help it. The sound just slipped out, and Sam glared at him in response. John didn't mean to poke the beast, but it was too late now. "He'll talk when he's ready."

"He needs to talk about this _now_."

"So you want me to order your brother out of the bathroom?" John stared at the closed door. "Man's gotta have some privacy, son."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Can I talk to you out in the hall?'

John shrugged. "Sure."

Once they were out in the hallway the same old patterns of anger and irritation rose up in the air between John and Sam like a spiderweb. John's hands twitched, and he had to force himself not to clench his fists.

"What are you and Bobby doing about Dean? How are you gonna get rid of that stuff inside him?"

"Bobby's got Pam Barnes looking into things. Missouri might have a lead or two."

"That's all you have so far? Dad, Dean's not okay ---"

"I didn't say he was," John muttered darkly, a flash of irritation in his eyes.

"--- and it doesn't look like he's getting any better. We have to_ do_ something about this."

"_We are_," he said pointedly. "Bobby and me. _You're not._ Understand me, Sam?

Sam looked startled. "I wasn't talking about my deal. I wouldn't--"

"You just said _we_ have to do something about this. You helping Dean like _that_," John nodded towards Sam's hands. "That's not an option. Not anymore. Thought I made myself clear about that. "

"What made you think that I would ---" Sam sputtered.

John leaned right into Sam's personal space. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"No!"

"You sure about that? You're done playing healer, right?" John stared into Sam's eyes, searching for a sign, a clue that something was not right. All he could see was indignation and anger.

Good enough. John nodded. "We'll find a way to break your deal, but Dean needs both of us right now. That means you _and_ me. If he doesn't want to talk about the last four years, then you need to respect that. You need to give him his space and let him deal with this in his own way. Your brother's stronger than you think he is."

Sam's eyes went almost to slits, then widened as though he finally realized something and was frankly amazed he hadn't noticed it before. "That's crap."

John stared at him in disbelief.

"Pure crap. If you lost us, you'd be down two soldiers, wouldn't you? Not enough boots on the ground."

"What?"

"That's it, isn't it?" Sam thrust his chin out defiantly. "You're gonna hang around just long enough to get Dean back on his feet, and then you're going to ditch us. You'll ditch us and then you'll send those damn coordinates back like you always do. Dean'll play the good son, like he always does. He'll go off in whatever direction you point him in, because he doesn't know anything else. He doesn't know what he wants for himself, and I'll follow him. Damn you, you know I will, especially after all of this."

"Is that a fact?" John's voice was hard as flint.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. That's a fact."

"You don't know anything, Sam."

"Yeah, I do, Dad. A leopard can't change its spots. And neither can you."

Sam snorted in disgust, then turned and walked down the hallway in the opposite direction, towards the other spare bedrooms.

John knew the routine: Sam had his say, and just to drive his point home with a frigging sledgehammer, Sam was making himself unavailable.

It was just like old times.

* * *

"Dean? I need to talk to you…"

John had already gone downstairs for breakfast. The morning was going to be awkward as hell, anyway, no matter what. Ellen and Bill had insisted that two of the long tables be pushed together so that everyone could eat in the same place. The Winchesters and the Harvelles were one big happy family now. Great.

Sam didn't even glance at her as he walked by. Being shunned like that made Jo cringe a little inside, but she had too much of Ellen and Bill in her to stop now. First Dean, then Sam. John would be easy. He still liked her; Jo could tell.

Dean turned away from the door of his room. When he lifted his head and focused those moss green eyes on her Jo wanted to back up.

There it was again, that wild, hard look in his eyes. Dean's face was cold, as inflexible as marble. Jo wondered what he saw when he looked at her now. It hadn't always been like that. When he smiled at her before the skin around his eyes would crinkle, and the warmth even reached his eyes. Even though he thought of her as a little sister (and that irritated the _hell_ out of her) his attitude was sweet, goofy and loving.

The look Dean gave her now was anything but.

_Well, you got his attention, girl,_ Ellen drawled inside Jo's head. _Might as well speak your peace._

"Uh, I'm sorry, Dean."

God, he looked like he wanted to hit her. Jo glanced down at Dean's hands. He stood relaxed and easy, and she knew that didn't mean a thing. She'd seen some of those sparring matches he'd had with John and Sam.

Dean's cold glare didn't waver. He stared her in the face, and forget about backing up, Jo wanted to run downstairs, but she didn't. She'd made this mess; it was time for her to make amends.

"I'm sorry I told John and Sam to give up on you. I thought you were dead."

The muscles on the right side of Dean's jaw tightened. There was no hint of that infamous Dean Winchester humor, no smirk. His mouth firmed into a hard thin line.

"I was out of line…I never should have said the things I said…"

"Family never gives up on family," Dean growled roughly. He'd never used that tone of voice with her before. He walked forward, and try as he might, Jo nearly jumped out of his way. Whatever they had before was over. It was done.

"Hey! I said I was sorry!" Jo yelled at Dean's back. Everyone in the damn Roadhouse probably heard her, but Jo didn't care.

Dean never answered her and he never looked back.

* * *

Lee Bender sensed the warmth in the air. It wasn't from the sun overhead. This was organic. It was meat. Living meat.

He grinned to himself. Maybe he could slip inside one of them, just like Gabriel did with that Winchester kid. It couldn't be _that_ hard, not if that freak Gabriel had done it. Lee floated away from the pit, willed his legs and feet to form as he lowered himself to the ground. He cocked his head to one side as he listened to the engine noises. One of them was a heavy duty dump truck from the sound of it. The engines stopped; doors slammed.

The other dead drifted through the woods towards the house. They didn't notice Lee this time. There was something else on their collective mind.

* * *

There was a moment when John thought they'd come through the morning okay. A moment when he actually thought the calmness Dean showed at breakfast would last. Dean's eyes narrowed a bit as he watched John sit down in the chair. He tensed up at the sight of those shiny scissors in Ellen's hand. Ellen cut John's hair, and Dean watched quietly. He was coiled as tight as a spring, but he visibly relaxed as Ellen pulled the towel away from John's shoulders.

"You're next, sweetie," Ellen said to Dean with a wink and a smile.

Twenty minutes later everything went to hell.

John couldn't tell whether Dean imagined he was back in Sweetbriar or with the Benders, but either way, that didn't matter. Ellen was in his personal space with those scissors. Dean's shoulders tensed up and that bright, hard glint flared up in his eyes. He'd had enough.

John lunged forward, and even as he did he knew he was too late.

Dean turned around and slapped Ellen's hand with the scissors out to the side. In the next instant Ellen's head rocked back as Dean struck her in the face.

John wrapped his arms around Dean, pinned his arms to his sides. Sam somehow got in front of Dean, and he used his height and weight to throw Dean off balance. He pushed against Dean as John pulled, and all three of them stumble-stepped backwards, in the opposite direction.

"Dean? Dean!"

"No…nuh…"

"It's all right, son, it's okay. "

"Let go of me, you sonsabitches…" Dean growled. "I'm not 317, you hear me, I'm not….."

John held on as Dean jerked his head backwards. The back of Dean's head smacked into John's nose and John grunted as everything around him flared white. Dean bucked as he attempted to break free. He slammed the heel of his foot down hard on John's instep.

The strain of holding on was murderous, but John definitely did not want to see what would happen if he let Dean go. John held on. When his vision cleared he could see Ellen on her knees now, the skin around her right eye already darkening to a bruise.

Jo Harvelle knelt beside her mother, and all John could do was stare as Jo raised the Mossberg shotgun up and pointed it at Dean's face.

* * *

TBC Tuesday


	35. down the friggin' rabbit hole

_**Chapter 35 – down the friggin' rabbit hole **_

Lee hung back.

There was something in the air around the humans. It was a vibration, something he'd never felt before. If he'd still been alive it would have set his teeth on edge and made his skin tingle. Meat all around, living and moving and breathing, and all he had to do was slip inside, underneath the skin, let one of the stupid sumbitches breathe him in like cigarette smoke.

Lee wasn't the only one who had the idea of slipping into a meatsuit, but he had no problem hanging back and letting someone else take the plunge first.

One of the spirits, a tall red-headed man in a rumpled brown business suit, floated up behind one of the humans in the yard. Lee remembered running Brown Suit down in the woods and slicing him open from his Adam's apple to his navel with a machete.

Lee waited.

The human was short and stocky, about Lee's age. He wore blue jeans and work boots, looked like any other piece of meat they'd snatched from Kugel's Keg. He frowned up a little as though he sensed something, but he shook it off as the other men climbed out of the trucks all around him.

The spirit grinned from ear to ear as it turned into wisps of grayish white smoke, pressed hungrily against the man's skin.

Nothing happened.

Brown Suit shook his head angrily, then tried it again, with the same results. The second time he popped harmlessly like a soap bubble. He materialized a few feet away, dazed and fearful.

The human didn't even notice.

Lee floated up into the air as he backed away. He froze when he saw the man who was in charge of the group.

Missy's little piggy was back for his pound of flesh.

That steely glint in the older man's eyes was clear and sharp; the shadows of that trucker's cap he wore did nothing to dim or hide it.

Other spirits tried to slip inside human flesh, with the same result. The dead backed away, confused and bewildered.

The humans were shielded. The rest of the men all had that same intense look to their faces. Lee got it. He understood. They were hunters. After all those years, all those victims, the bill for the Benders had finally come due.

Lee laughed. His fear and anger scalded the air around him like acid. The windshield of one of the trucks sitting nearby cracked, jagged cracks stitched deep into the glass.

Trucker's Cap glanced in his direction, and Lee felt a shock of fear and panic stiffen his spine. He couldn't stop any of this, and that frightened him even more. Missy's little piggy limped up the front steps into the house, followed by five men carrying heavy containers in each hand.

Lee willed himself back to his grave in the space of a heartbeat.

They'd come for him soon enough.

* * *

_Crazy… _

Jo caught a flash of pale freckled skin, short sandy blond hair and bright green eyes on Sam's right side.

_Dean's crazy, he hit Momma he hit Momma…_

"Let go of me, you sonofabitch," Dean gritted out. "Let go…"

"Dean, it's me, It's Dad," John whispered softly, like he was gentling an unruly, half wild colt. "Dude, it's me. Sam's here too."

Dean arched his back as he tried to break free of John's grip. His muscles tensed up and the cords in his neck bulged tightly. "Fuck you…you're not my Dad…you're not…he wouldn't touch me like that…" Dean shook his head from side to side. "He wouldn't…"

Jo's eyes narrowed as she tracked him with the muzzle of the gun. John jerked Dean back as Sam moved to block Jo's view. Sam's face was set in stone, hard, angry.

"Get out of the way, Sam." Even as she said it Jo knew Sam wouldn't budge.

Sam shook his head. "Hell no. You're not gonna hurt my brother."

"Not gonna ask you again." Jo was surprised at how calm she sounded. The gun in her hands felt solid, and her hands didn't shake, never mind that she was holding a fully loaded shotgun on the three men she once considered to be family.

Sam glared at her. "I don't care. You're not hurting Dean."

"Joanna Beth?"

Ellen coughed as she rose slowly to her feet.

"Momma?" Jo didn't dare turn to look at her. The moment stretched out, slowed down. One careless moment could send the whole thing spinning out of control. Jo's finger was on the trigger, and all it would take was just a little more pressure. Sam could decide to rush Jo. Ellen didn't dare reach for the gun. So many things could get fucked up in a hurry.

"Joanna Beth? You put that gun down, you hear me? Right now."

"No. Dean hurt you, Momma."

"Jo? Honey?"

Jo looked over the barrel of the Mossberg and froze. The muzzle of the gun wavered slightly.

Bill Harvelle moved slowly, painfully, as he led with his left foot. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. Despite the limp, and the silver-gray threads in his light brown hair, he still looked larger than life to her, like Steve McQueen. Jo felt her stomach tighten. She knew what he was going to do, and it was so unfair. Dean hurt Momma. That cocky, lovable boy she'd grown up with was gone, and in his place was this wild-eyed, bruised psycho.

Bill stopped directly in front of the Winchesters. He'd blocked her shot; Jo figured her game face was good for about five seconds more.

"D-Daddy…no…"

"Jo," Bill said softly. He leaned heavily on his cane as he raised his right hand up. "Put the gun down. Please, darlin'. "

Jo hesitated for the barest second. Her hands shook as she pointed the Mossberg down and to the side. The words caught in her throat, thick and hard. She was going to strangle on them if she didn't get them out. "Dean…Dean hit Momma, Daddy." Maybe he didn't see, didn't understand. Maybe she could make him understand. "Dean hurt Momma…"

"I know he did. I know. Dean's not well, baby. He's not." Bill limped forward. Jo tried to keep her game face on, but it slipped sideways from her now. As her father limped forward Jo stepped into him and put her arm around his waist. She pressed into his side as he put his free arm around Ellen.

"That's my girls," Bill whispered softly. Jo sniffed noisily as she looked at her mother. Ellen's right eye was bruised and very nearly swollen shut. Jo's fingers gave a sharp, angry jerk, as she imagined pulling the trigger.

Nothing happened.

She looked down and realized that the Mossberg was in Ellen's left hand now. Ellen snorted. Her arm slipped around Jo's waist and tightened. "This little bump? Heck, I've had worse."

Dean took a deep shuddering breath. His eyes rolled white; those impossibly long dark lashes of his came down like a shutter. His head lolled backwards and then forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. John held on, felt the tension in Dean's muscles melt away as Dean went suddenly limp. It was over. Dean had worn himself out. He didn't have the energy for anything else, but John held onto him anyway.

The look Sam gave John was sharp, pointed. "Dad? That's enough."

John loosened his grip.

Dean's eyes snapped open.

It all went south in a damn hurry.

Dean tensed up again, coiling like a tightly wound spring. He somehow hooked his right leg behind John's leg and jerked forward, sending John off balance.

The next thing John knew Dean was on top of him. Dean smiled down at him, bright and slightly crooked. All John could do was bring both hands up to shield his face and chest. He felt the slap and sting of Dean's fists against his skin. Dean's skin felt too warm, feverish.

For a wild moment John believed he was back in the woods again, and this wasn't Dean, it was Gabriel all over again. Dean looked healthy, despite the fading bruises on his face and that long thin cut down his right brow and cheek. He didn't wheeze anymore, and he sure in the hell wasn't weak or tired. If anything his color was a little too rosy.

Sam rushed up from behind and wrapped his arms around his brother. Dean pushed off with his legs, driving backwards hard, slamming Sam hard into the bar behind them.

John scrambled to his feet just as Dean turned to face Sam. A blow to the face staggered Sam despite his best efforts to block, and then another to the chest, and incredibly enough Dean smiled at the sight of his brother in pain like that.

John bulled his way in, pushed Dean up against the bar. They traded blows, and at one point Dean lashed out with his left hand and John caught his hand by the wrist.

Dean's skin was so hot John nearly let go. _My God, he's burning up._

A right to Dean's jaw staggered him. Dean blinked as he stared at John's face, as though he was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time in a long time. His eyes widened, deer in the headlights.

It was the damndest thing. Dean's skin cooled off almost instantly. His skin color changed, went from flushed to pale and freckled. John held on, and the sensation raised the hair at the back of his neck, stiff and painful.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked.

"It's okay. You're safe."

Dean's eyes skittered over in Sam's direction, took in the bruises on Sam's face as he leaned against the bar.

"S-Sam?" John could see the realization dawn in his eldest son's eyes. Dean seemed horribly young somehow, pale and shaken. He didn't even glance towards the Harvelles, and that was just as well.

_I hurt Sam. _

He stared at John's face again_. I hurt Dad. _

John released Dean's wrist, and as soon as he did Dean stumbled backwards. His face changed, that brief glimpse of vulnerability smoothed out into that curiously blank expression that John knew all too well.

Dean looked calm, but he was screaming inside.

_I hurt my family…_

John didn't move. Dean backed up. John wasn't surprised to see Dean snag a bottle from one of the open boxes at the corner of the bar.

Hell of a thing. John wanted to be a father to his boys now, at least more of a father than he'd been in the past, and now all he could do was fall into old patterns and stand and watch.

Dean turned and stumbled for the back door with the bottle in his hand.

* * *

An hour later John crouched in the brush in the lot behind the Roadhouse. He didn't turn around as he heard the footsteps behind him. He knew Sam was angry at him now, furious that he'd allowed Dean to take off like that in the first place.

"Hey." Bill didn't even try to kneel down. His right leg wouldn't unbend that far.

"Christ, What a mess. What about Ellen?"

Bill shrugged. "Told me to come out here and see how you and Dean are."

The two men watched in silence as Dean Winchester stood in the clearing several feet away. Dean staggered a little as he lifted the bottle up to his lips and drank from it. The tight, tense look of the muscles of his face didn't relax. He wanted to get drunk, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

John shrugged. "We're leaving, as soon as Bobby comes back."

"Need some company?"

John rose to his feet, brushing his palms against his jeans. "Nah, I got this."

"John, you can stay as long as you like." Bill sounded pissed off. "I told you that."

"No. Dean's got this idea in his head that you're not family anymore. I don't…I don't trust my boy around people anymore. Just me and Bobby and Sam."

Bill still didn't move. John chuckled. "Go back inside, Bill. Take care of your family."

* * *

_Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker…_

Dumb ass rhyme. Dean stared at the empty bottle in his hand with disgust. His head felt funny and his legs weren't working right. The ground seemed a lot farther away than he ever thought it would be, so maybe it was best to sit down this time.

Dean put his back to the tree trunk and slid down. His ass hit the ground with a hard thump, but he barely felt it.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Hey, Dad," Dean whispered hoarsely. He stared wide eyed as John slowly sat down right beside him.

"Maybe you shouldn't…" Dean muttered. "I'm not…safe to be around."

"Yeah, you are," John drawled softly. Dean didn't answer. He stared wearily into space.

"You okay, son?"

Dean sighed. " 'm fine."

John snorted. "Hell you are. Bud, you told me that last night when I asked you how you were feeling. You said the same thing this morning. You're not fine. Talk to me, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes.

"Come on, kiddo. Don't leave me hanging like this."

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It felt…good…."

"What did?"

"Hitting you," Dean slurred. "And Sam. It felt good." His face twisted with grief and pain at the thought, and then just as quickly, smoothed out again as he opened his eyes.

"I didn't…didn't know it was you at first."

John nodded. "I know you didn't."

"I remembered what you said about Ellen not hurting us. I did. But I kept seeing those scissors out of the corner of my eye and I lost it. I fucking lost it. Went right down the friggin' rabbit hole. I couldn't stop myself."

"Rabbit hole?"

Dean laughed. There wasn't any humor or mirth to the sound. "_Alice in Wonderland._ Sammy liked that book, remember?"

John looked momentarily blank.

Dean didn't notice. His expression shifted, became happier, more relaxed. "Got it from a thrift store somewhere. I used to read it to him. He got mad at me if I changed the story. I added stuff. Called the rabbit Bugs Bunny, had him driving a car. Sometimes I did that just to piss him off."

John snorted.

Another change in Dean's expression. The blankness flowed over his fine features again, too smooth, too controlled.

"Gabriel drove most of the time. When we…when I…was at Sweetbriar. Whenever I came out Beck…" Dean swallowed thickly. "Beck was there. Told me it was mind over matter. They didn't mind, 'cause I didn't matter."

"They'd come at me five or six at a time. I kicked their asses as much as I could. Wasn't gonna lay down and be Beck's little bitch, y'know? I made him work for it."

Dean sighed again, and John waited. Four years apart from his family, and John knew that Dean never would have confessed to anything that happened to him while he was gone. He would have stuck to the lie that he was fine, that everything was all right.

Not any more.

He couldn't hide it, couldn't hide _from_ it. Dean's defenses were down, and it wasn't because of the whiskey. He was too tired to run from it anymore. There was a time for everything in this world, and this was Dean's time for this.

_I got you, kiddo,_ John thought. _I'm here._

Dean talked about Sweetbriar in a low, oddly calm voice, and John listened.

* * *

Next post: Monday. Bobby at the Benders' place, Sam makes a phone call, and Jimmy and Castiel tie up loose ends at Sweetbriar.


	36. man in the mirror

_**A/N:**_ Hugh McDonald plays bass for _Bon Jovi_.

* * *

_**Chapter 36 - man in the mirror **_

The more things change, the more they stayed the same.

Sam turned away from the Roadhouse. He could barely stand to look at the place before, and now he just couldn't stand the sight of it anymore. Somewhere in the field behind the building Dean was drinking himself stupid, and John Winchester, Great White Hunter and Piss Poor Excuse for a Father, was letting his eldest son do just that.

His jaw and chest ached, but Sam ignored it. _Dean hit me. He hit me, and I deserved it._

Sam took a really deep breath to settle himself. He slipped his cell out of his pocket and punched in a number he hadn't called in four years. The call would show up on Missouri's caller ID as Hugh McDonald.

"Hello,Sam."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap_. Oh. Psychic. Right. _

"Uh huh," Sam said out loud. The silence that followed stretched out long and awkward.

"Well, _you_ called _me_, so you must have something on your mind." Missouri's soft drawl was tinged with amusement.

"Dad said you were working on a way to cure Dean. He told us about the spirit residue, " Sam said flatly. Inwardly he cringed at the tone in his voice. He was trying to get information out of someone he hadn't spoken to in four years, and instead of trying to finesse the information out of her by being friendly and charming and engaging, he sounded like a bad actor in one of those dumbass cop movies Dean used to like.

"I've called around, done some research." Missouri replied mildly. She didn't react negatively to Sam's tone; she didn't seem to notice it at all. "Removing the spirit is relatively easy. Living with the after effects is hard."

Sam huffed bitterly. "You couldn't even lie about that, huh? I know you lie to some of your clients."

"I sometimes tell people what they want to hear, because their minds are closed and they wouldn't hear the truth anyway." Sam could visualize Missouri's shrug on the other end. "I'm not going to lie to you, Sam. Dean's stronger than you think he is. A lesser person would have…" Missouri's voice trailed off, as if she was afraid of saying too much.

"A lesser person would have what?" Sam's tone sharpened.

"Gabriel Bender was a dark creature filled with anger and hate. He was everything your brother isn't. Dean somehow withstood that all these years. Most people don't survive that long, much less in their right mind like that."

"Dean's not in his right mind."

"You know that's not true. Sometimes he slips away, but he's here most of the time. He loves you and John very much."

_Huh. Dad. Yeah, great father image. Lets his son drown himself inside a bottle of Jack_. Sam sent the thought out hard enough, hoping that Missouri would pick up on that, at least.

She didn't. Or maybe she ignored it. "Well?"

Sam stared down at his boots. "Dean's having some, uh, problems."

"After the last four years, I imagine he would be," Missouri said quietly.

Another awkward silence. This was a damned bad idea. Maybe he should have called Bobby.

"Dean spends a lot of time in the shower, doesn't he?"

Sam nodded.

"He's trying to peel back the layers. Gabriel's layers. Dean wants to be himself again. That's a very good sign, Sam. Some victims…"

"Dean's not a victim," Sam heard himself mutter darkly.

"Some people try to cut their bodies open to get relief. Has Dean been violent lately?"

Sam nodded. "He hit Ellen. He fought me and Dad. He…he was wild. He thought he was back at Sweetbriar."

"In his mind, he was. What Gabriel left behind keys off negative emotions. Violent activity might burn some of it off, but that might not help Dean in the long run."

He was jolted to hear the next words that came out of Missouri's mouth. "Sam," she said primly, with just a hint of disapproval in her voice, "I know about the deal you made with that demon."

There it was, out in the open at last.

"I know you think you have the answer to Dean's problem at your fingertips." Missouri sighed. "You don't. You can't help Dean that way. You'd be damning yourself, and Dean wouldn't want that for you. He never did. You'll only make things worse."

Sam's lips drew back in a bitter, tight smile, even though he knew Missouri couldn't see his expression. "Dad told you, huh?"

"No, he didn't. I'm a psychic, remember? You're thinking about hanging up on me right now, you rude boy. That's all right."

_What the hell._ Sam flipped the phone shut.

The life lines of his right palm flexed a little, open and then shut, as did the clawmarks over his left hip. Sam froze at the sensation. His skin tingled, sharp needles of electricity that prickled his skin from his head down to his toes.

Somewhere Lim was laughing its ass off.

* * *

Dean finally ran out of words.

His voice, eerily calm and somehow childlike, echoed inside John's head like the ghostly ocean echo inside a seashell. John recognized the tone. He'd heard it before, but he couldn't place it.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Dean stared at him, calmly, dully, those impossibly long eyelashes of his dark and sooty against his pale, freckled skin. His head bobbled slightly as his shoulders slumped. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he used what little energy he had left to focus on John. Dean had always trusted John with a certainty that was absolutely terrifying sometimes. John knew the look on Dean's face; he knew it all too well.

Dad was here. Everything was fine now.

That never bothered John before, but it did now.

_I don't deserve this. Couldn't stop any of this from happening. Couldn't get to you before now. _

That drowsy, yet somehow alert look of Dean's prickled John's skin, made him feel anxious and uneasy.

"_Woke up in that place," Dean whispered in John's memory. "I didn't get it at first. Missy wasn't around. First one I saw was Beck."_

"Come on, kiddo," John heard himself say as he stood up. In his mind's eye he locked away the images and sounds that Dean's voice had conjured up, locked away images of Nathan Beck, smiling and smug, like a miser hoards away gold coins.

"It's all right, Dean," John murmured softly. "You're okay now."

Part of that was a lie. John hated himself for that, but it was all he had to offer his eldest son right now.

"Let's get you inside, okay?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Head hurts," he whispered roughly.

"You're fine now. You're safe. Let me help you up."

Five minutes later Dean slept curled up on his side. John kept watch, and the sound of Dean's voice was a low murmur inside the space behind John's eyes. It was the softest sound John had ever heard, and it was the loudest.

"_He said I was pretty."_

John watched Dean sleep, listened to the slight whistling sound Dean made as he breathed.

"_I wanted to kick his ass, but I couldn't move."_

Something swelled up inside John's chest and throat, something huge that pushed hard. It wanted to be let out, needed to be released, but he couldn't do that, not yet. The room blurred around him as John blinked away the grittiness at the corners of his eyes. Dean's image wavered, went from the tall, broad-shouldered man sleeping before him, became a small blond haired boy instead. That was better, until Dean's voice rose up again, soft and somehow gentle.

"_They strapped me down."_

_No._ John blinked again. The room came back into focus.

"_I burned up when they shocked me."_

John put his hands flat against his thighs. His palms tensed up, he dug his fingernails into the rough fabric of his jeans.

John breathed, and he listened.

"_Beck pushed me face first into the wall…"_

Sam stalked into the room sometime later. It might have been minutes or hours later. John couldn't tell. He didn't miss the scowl Sam aimed in his direction, the way Sam's chin lifted and tilted defiantly. Sam's expression softened when he looked at Dean. "Dad?"

_Jesus. Not now. _

John stood up.

His movements were unhurried and controlled as he stood up and turned for the door, Sam's glare at his back, heavy and disapproving.

_Can't deal with that now. I can't._

He was on auto pilot now. John never remembered walking downstairs. He didn't even blink as he walked out of the back door into the sunlight moments later.

" _He said…Beck said he liked to hear me scream…" _

The sound of Dean's voice bore down on him, pressed down on his shoulders. John stumbled as he walked past Ellen's white van. He broke into a run at the edge of the parking lot.

"_It hurt. I wasn't gonna scream."_

"I'm sorry," John said out loud. He shook his head as tears streamed down his face.

_They shocked me too._

_It's okay, Dad. _

John plunged forward, stumbled in the tall grass in the field behind the Roadhouse.

"_He gave me pills. I got stuck with needles a lot."_

John's heart and stomach lurched downwards, hard. He fell to his knees but just as quickly, scrambled back up.

"_All that fucked with my head. Pushed me down inside. I went away."_

"Dean…I'm so damned sorry…"

"_He told me I was his good little bitch."_

Nathan Beck kissed Dean.

_It's all right. _

Nathan Beck smiled as he fucked Dean, over and over again.

_It's okay, Dad._

Another stumble step, and John threw his arms out in front of him. He didn't fall. His palms smacked hard against the same tree trunk that Dean sat down against an hour before. John's gaze flickered downward. He reached down, picked up Dean's empty whiskey and slung it into the tall grass beyond.

Sunlight glinted off clear glass as the bottle tumbled end over end in mid-air. It landed with a thump out of sight in the tall grass, but it didn't break. Even if it had, it wasn't enough. The rage and sorrow inside John pushed outwards against the boundaries of his skin. He needed to see blood. He had to see it.

John knew why Dean sounded like that. Knew where he'd heard that before. He threw his head back and bellowed, a deep throated cry of rage and despair. His right hand curled up into a fist and at the last moment he pulled his punch, succeeded in only skinning his knuckles against the rough tree bark.

He needed to save his hands.

Needed them for Beck.

_It's okay, Dad._

Again, with his left.

_It's all right. _

In his mind's eye John saw himself stumble back home, from some hunt, from somewhere, blood splattered, weary with fatigue and pain, his mind nearly blank from the horror he'd seen and the things he'd done. He moved quietly, but his legs were stiff and even so, Dean would have woken up anyway. The kid was like that, always vigilant, and sure enough, as soon as John sat down on the couch Dean was there, standing right in front of him, looking fragile and gangly in that oversized t shirt and faded pajama bottoms he wore when he was a kid.

Dean put out one hand, slowly, carefully, and his fingers lightly touched John's shoulder.

"It's okay, Dad," Dean whispered. "It's all right."

It wasn't the first time Dean had done this, and it wasn't the last.

Dean's voice from an hour before. John knew it all along. His son, his adult son, wanted John to know what happened to him in Sweetbriar. He wanted John to know it was all right.

"It's not…" John sobbed. "It's not all right."

John sank down on his knees. His face was wet. His throat hitched as he gulped in great lungfuls of air. His broad shoulders shivered and shook as he knelt there. He stared at the blood on his knuckles.

His blood for now. He deserved that much, at least. This was good for a start. His fingers weren't broken.

The corners of John's lips twitched upwards in a wolfish grin. Good.

He needed to save his hands for Beck.

* * *

Sam stood frozen at the edge of the field. This wasn't what he expected, not at all. The hair at the back of his neck stood straight up and out. The sensation was almost painful. A part of him wanted to walk forward, and kneel down next to Dad, but this was Dad, after all. Sam's heartbeat slowed, and his fingers uncurled. He was prepared for a fight, another argument, a really loud one, like they always were, but this stopped him dead in his tracks.

All Sam could do was stand there and watch.

* * *

_It's all right, Dean. You're okay._

Dean opened his eyes.

Dad wasn't around. That was funny. Funny peculiar, because he could have sworn he heard Dad's voice inside his head.

Huh.

Sammy wasn't around either.

Dean moved slowly. He rolled over on his right side and pushed himself upright. He wobbled a little from side to side before he finally found his center. His head lolled forward. It took an effort, but he raised both arms and rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He felt tired. Worn out. That was nothing new nowadays. His skin felt drawn too tight over his bones.

Nature was calling and he had to take a leak.

The tile floor was cool against the soles of his feet. Dean washed his hands, then stared at himself in the mirror.

He wasn't sorry about Ellen. Not at all. She wasn't family. Dad let her cut his own hair, but that didn't matter. In a couple of months Dad was going to be shaggy too. Dean wondered why they'd gone to all that trouble anyway. Wouldn't have happened if Dad had cut his hair.

Dean frowned up at a distant memory of a smoke detector going off, Dad yelling and a blackened frying pan.

Well, maybe not. Dude didn't know his way around a toaster, either.

Dean leaned into the mirror, ran his fingers through his hair, searching for a hint of dark blond at the roots.

Nothing.

Fucking Gabriel had burned him white down to his core.

Dean curled his lip up in disgust. Taking inventory was getting to be a friggin' habit.

_Same spray of freckles_ across his nose, his chest and upper arms. He ran his fingers down that slash mark down his right cheek and brow. The bruises were fading out. He was lucky, he always healed up nice and smooth, with minimal scarring. Dean wore his scars like a badge of honor, his scars, not Gabriel's.

And anyway, chicks dig scars.

He stared at his jawline. Dean nodded in satisfaction. Stubble was growing back. Not as heavy as Dad's, but it was just enough to toughen him up, make him look older. Just enough to give notice that he was not to be fucked with. Looking all fresh-faced and innocent was Sammy's department.

Missy liked stubble, but back at Sweetbriar they'd kept him too smooth. Beck liked him better that way. A shudder twitched its way underneath Dean's skin at the memory.

"Freckles. Nice." Beck murmured softly.

Sometimes he'd paint Dean's freckles with his tongue.

Beck enjoyed staring at Dean's face. He'd run his fingertips over Dean's lips and the cleft in his chin. Dean got it. He knew. All of that was a gesture of ownership.

_You ass belongs to me now, boy._

There weren't enough drugs in the world to make him forget _that_.

_Friggin' emo crap. _Dean snorted, low and disgusted. It was time to hit the shower, but he stopped short when he saw that brightly colored box sitting on top of the bath towels.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "You gotta be fucking kidding me," Dean rumbled.

There was a dude's picture on the front of the box, but Dean wasn't fooled. This was hair color. Fucking hair color. He squinted at the color swatch on the upper right hand corner of the box. Didn't look like the color he'd had once. He couldn't remember exactly.

Fuck. Dean laughed, a short, sharp burst of sound. Dyeing his hair was something that a chick would do. He wrinkled his nose slightly.

Must be Dad's idea, all right. John Winchester, style consultant. Who knew the old man had it in him?

Sandy blond. That was _Gabriel's _hair color. Even with the cut, that was still_ Gabriel's_ hair. It was a lead pipe clinch that hillbilly cannibal freak had never cut his hair this short before.

Dean turned the box in his hands over to the back, stared hard at the directions. Seemed easy enough. Hell, if he could swap parts for the Impala and field strip weapons, how freaking hard could this be?

Dean looked in the mirror, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk.

* * *

**_A/N:_** I forgot how long this chapter was. I know you like the story, and I'm very grateful for that, but a 20 page chapter is way too long to me. Here's half now, and the other half will be posted Saturday. Bobby's in there, so is Jimmy, Castiel, and Hendricksen.


	37. flash point

_**A/N #1: **_Here's the second part of that long chapter. No Winchesters in this one, just Castiel, Jimmy et al.

_**A/N #2:**_ ElenaB, thanks. Oh me of little faith.

_**A/N #3:**_ Limited internet access equals big time suckage.

**_And now for the usual disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 37 - flash point**_

Jimmy Novak turned his face up to the sunlight and closed his eyes. Golden light flared underneath his eyelids. The color warmed and soothed him.

_We appreciate your faith and your service to us,_ Castiel murmured inside Jimmy's head.

Jimmy nodded. There was no need to respond. Castiel's gratitude made the golden light pulse gently with each whispered word. A thrill of warmth and good feeling coursed throughout Jimmy's body. He'd prayed for service, and Castiel was the answer to his prayers.

The thought of sharing his body with something dark always sent a shudder down Jimmy's spine. Jimmy thought of Dean Winchester at least once a day. He couldn't imagine Gabriel Bender as the answer to _anyone's_ prayers.

Today was visitors day. In one hour he'd see Amelia and Claire one last time.

Jimmy smiled a little to himself. They didn't understand. They never did. The worry in their eyes whenever they looked at him always made him sad. This was his calling, and he didn't expect them to understand. Jimmy didn't understand everything either, but he believed. That was good enough for him.

His cell was one of the nicer ones at Sweetbriar. He had a window, and even the bars on the window didn't detract from the view. The cell was sunny most days. The bed he sat on was one of the newer ones. This was a reward for being obedient, and on one level he could certainly understand that, but there was no comparison between the two.

It was God's will. He was right where he was supposed to be, and so was everyone else.

* * *

"God Almighty," Bobby whispered to himself as he surveyed the scene. "What a mess."

All he could think of was Dean. Dean trapped here in his body, in this house, seeing God only knew what each and every damn day, and being unable to stop it. Bobby knew that Dean felt he could have stopped it. _Should have._ He also knew the kid believed he actively participated in the carnage. Bobby didn't believe _that_ for a second, but Dean did, and _that _was worrisome.

The hunters found twenty jars of human fingers, teeth and assorted bones, ten wind chimes made from human bones, and that was just on the first floor of the Bender house. In the kitchen the refrigerators and the freezers were emptied out, and the contents piled on the kitchen table.

The upstairs bedrooms were the worst. Two of the searchers found a jar of human ears in one of the back bedrooms. The outer edges of the flesh had been nibbled away on several of the pieces.

_Midnight snack,_ Bobby thought to himself. He fought against the impulse to gag.

Dirty men's flannel shirts and soiled blue jeans were strewn all over the floor in the next bedroom. A patch of long red curly hair lay on the bed. At first Bobby thought it was a wig. His gorge rose up in his throat when he saw ragged edges of grey human flesh just underneath the long strands of hair.

Aaron Fletcher found a pair of hands in a large canning jar in Missy and Gabriel Bender's room. The skin was mummified, delicate dark brown leather, but the hands were long and slender, with short nails, possibly those of a young girl no older than twelve or fourteen.

"Jesus," Aaron Fletcher frowned. He glanced around the room. There was too much to focus on: women's clothes, jars and jars of stuff sitting on the dresser, the table and the floors all around. He didn't want to look too closely at the jars, he really didn't. Fingers and toes, all shapes and sizes, and was that a pair of hazel eyes in that jar on the bed over there?

Aaron turned and stared at Bobby."We need to throw all this in the pit?"

Bobby shook his head. His right foot was singing soprano now, as though it recognized the place all over again and was singing out for its missing little toe. "We play this right, the house will go up along with everything else."

Aaron Fletcher cast one more look at the hands in the jar on the dresser, and then turned away, his otherwise ruddy complexion a bit paler this time.

"Come on," Bobby said mildly, "We gotta talk to Stevie."

Aaron didn't need to be told more than once. It was good to get out of that house. It smelled inside, all kinds of sour, meaty odors that neither man really wanted to breathe in, but the outside wasn't much better, either. The stench of old and new death was in the air.

Men and women worked quietly in the yard around the house. They dug up the earth around the 'spirit stay put' signs, unearthed bones, rotting meat and decaying flesh. Everyone worked quietly, solemnly, with none of the black gallows humor that hunters were known for. They were in a slaughterhouse of nearly biblical proportions, and everyone there knew it.

A nondescript brown panel truck sat in the driveway next to the heavy duty dump truck. The load in the back of the dump truck was covered with a heavy, olive green canvas tarp. A hunter wearing blue denim clothes leaned into the panel truck between the open doors.

Bobby limped over to the figure. "Well?"

"Your tax dollars at work, pilgrim," Stevie Murphy drawled in her best John Wayne imitation as she turned around. She was short and stocky, with a shock of dusty brown chin-length hair. She hefted a plastic wrapped packet about the size and thickness of a good-sized paperback book in each hand. "A little something special that Uncle Sam isn't even gonna miss."

Even at rest, relaxed like this, Stevie still looked dangerous and capable.

_God,_ Bobby thought, _I knew her when she was just a little girl, all freckles and pigtails._ Several tours of duty overseas in Iraq, and Stevie was the go-to "guy" for special ordinance that hunters in the states might need. She grew up with the Fletcher brothers; she called as soon as she heard the word about them. "Don't ask, don't tell" was her motto. Need special ordnance for a special job? It was best to stay on Stevie's good side. She still had connections in the military, and she wasn't at all shy about calling in favors.

"Run it through for me again?" Bobby growled.

Stevie nodded as she held each package up. "Two compounds, A and B." A had the white plastic wrap; B had medium blue. "Even if you were dumb enough to break open the seals and mix them both together, you get nothing. Nada." She tapped the copper wire and the disk shaped receiver in the top of the packet lightly with her thumb. "Until you hit the ignitors with the right radio signal. That's when the fun begins. Primary explosion is bad enough, but the chain reaction flows through the gases, and that's where your secondary explosion comes in. It doubles the first pop, and you get way more bang for your buck."

She nodded at the dump truck. "Nice thing is, we can load salt and anything else special you want around the packets. Won't affect a thing."

Bobby huffed. He eyed the open panel truck warily; the vehicle was loaded with those packages, from the bed to the ceiling. "You sure we got enough?"

Stevie's cheeks dimpled. Her cocky grin reminded Bobby of Dean's back in the day. "Oh hell yeah. The flame and shock wave won't spread beyond the perimeter. Used them for shake and bake operations overseas. We'd nuke one side of the street and leave the other side untouched."

It was Bobby's turn to smirk a little. "Outstanding."

* * *

Alastair purred as he worked. He peeled off the outer layers of the soul's chest, cracked the ribs back from the heart. The skin was freckled, golden and very nice. It fit well over the muscles. Alastair nodded with satisfaction. He stood back, stared hungrily at sandy blond hair, wide green eyes. He always did have an eye for beauty.

It had been a long time coming with this one. Twenty years ago, after the boy's first death, Alastair waited in vain for him to come home. Ordinarily murder victims go to heaven, but not this one. His soul was too blackened already.

Heaven didn't want him. Alastair did.

The boy had so much potential. He'd wasted himself upstairs, with his family. They didn't have vision, none of them did. Any fool could slice and dice and eat their way through screaming human flesh. It took a true artist to carve flesh into new shapes, and from the moment Alastair heard about the Benders, he knew which one he wanted by his side.

The soul on the rack opened his eyes. His back arched and he jerked forward with a shocked gasp. He was sliced open from his collarbone to his bellybutton, and the realization seemed to startle him.

"Hello, beauty." Alastair laughed.

Gabriel's dark green eyes widened in shock. Alastair leaned in until they were nose to nose. Gabriel panted, short, panicked bursts of cool air that fanned against Alastair's dark red skin. "You have the face and name of an angel," the demon rumbled cheerfully. "Who says the Man Upstairs doesn't have a wicked sense of humor?"

"Please…no…" Gabriel gasped. He twisted his wrists and ankles against the straps. Alastair closed his large black eyes and breathed in the boy's scent: sharp steel, blood and fear, canvas rooms, red pills and silent screams, years and years worth. Alastair tilted his head back as though he was inhaling an exquisite bouquet.

Gabriel shook his head uselessly from side to side.

Alastair's eyes clicked open, twin pools of blackness.

"Missy…" Gabriel whispered brokenly. "Abraham…"

"That's soo sweet." Alastair gently ran the tips of his claws up and down Gabriel's inner thigh. Alastair slithered his long mottled blue tongue around Gabriel's left earlobe.

Gabriel shuddered. Alastair's saliva was warm, oil slick and slimy to the touch.

"They can't help you now. They can't stop this, either. I can hack on you like this for all eternity." Alastair huffed, exasperated. "Family loyalty. That's a waste of time down here, you know that? All that suffering and pain, and what good is it? All you have to do to stop me is to say yes. Take my knife, and I'll let you up."

Gabriel didn't say anything. Alastair cocked his head to one side, as though he was listening for something. A crack in the boy's armor, perhaps. It was there, he could sense it, getting wider and deeper.

"Don't fool yourself any longer, Gabriel. Abraham killed you the first time."

Gabriel stared upwards at the cracked, blackened ceiling of the torture chamber, scenes from the past flashing and snapping behind his eyes.

_Pl-pleas' A-Abra-ham, dun't…don't hurt me anymor'_

Alastair rolled his eyes. "He didn't trust you enough to even ask you what was going on with the little woman. He thought you were fucking his whore. Gunned you down like a dog, stuck your body in that tree. Out of sight, out of mind."

Alastair leaned forward. "And Jerry? Not so dumb. He followed Lee that night. He hurt you, and he left you, and we all know how _that_ worked out, don't we, boyo?"

_Come on, Jerry, leave him, we gotta go!_

Alastair pulled back with a soft sigh. "I'm offering your family this one time deal."

That was a lie. Alastair's stock in trade.

"First one that says yes gets off the rack and becomes my apprentice. Missy and ol' Abe are right on the edge. Won't take much to push them over. Jerry?" Alastair shrugged. "Don't think I'll need to convince that big lump much, but as a courtesy, I thought I'd offer the deal to you first."

"Not M-Missy…I can't hurt her…I can't…"

"Ah, yes. Missy. The love of your life." Alastair's broad features softened. "Well, one out of four ain't bad, kiddo. The problem is, dear boy, I'll want you all for myself if you take the deal. I don't like to share."

Gabriel stared up at Alastair wide eyed. His exposed heart thumped and beat slowly in the middle of his chest.

"I need an apprentice. You've got skills, but you need to polish them. It's an all you can eat buffet down here, Gabriel. That's one of the perks of the job. You can be my angel, Gabriel. My very own Angel of Death."

Gabriel licked his lips.

Alastair wanted to bend down and kiss that sweet mouth, but there would be plenty of time for that later.

"G-give it to m-me…" Gabriel moaned softly.

"What? What was that?" Alastair waited.

"G-give me the d-damn knife…"

Alastair smiled.

* * *

Jimmy waited patiently on the bench inside the visitors' center.

_It is time, Jimmy._ Castiel sounded stern. Old Testament. Jimmy wondered if the angel had sounded this way in the old times. Visiting hours were over. In his mind's eye Jimmy saw Amelia and Claire slowly drive off the visitors lot.

Jimmy looked around and watched as some of the other visitors sat with their relatives. It was a given that his wife and his daughter would not be present to witness this, but he felt a large twinge of worry and yes, even guilt for the others around them.

_It is their time. _Castiel's tone softened. _This is necessary._

Castiel's power radiated outwards from Jimmy's body in waves that only Jimmy could see. touched the two orderlies standing nearby.

_I will lift the veil of secrecy from this place. _

Jimmy watched their faces. Their eyes narrowed, and then widened. Their faces filled with a terrible, bright joy. Their fingers and hands twitched, claw-like.

_They will no longer be able to hide. The others will bear witness._

Jimmy nodded.

* * *

Reidy felt that familiar headache coming on. He sat back in his chair and gingerly pinched the space between his eyes. Medical records and photographs were spread all over the table in front of him. Occasionally raised voices were heard out in the hallway, patients singing, guards barking out orders. Typical background noise for an institution this size.

Hendrickson grunted. He stared down at John Doe 317's medical records on the table before him.

"There's nothing here, Vic. Nothing out there, either." Reidy made a handflap at the walls.

"They've gone deep. Gone off the grid," Hendrickson muttered. "Winchester's got survivalist contacts all over the place. He'd hole up with Dean, get him down off the meds. We get anything from that list of contacts?"

Reidy laughed. "Got one who said he'd turn on Winchester in a heartbeat. Called him a surly sumbitch. The rest? We're not having much luck. Maybe if Winchester showed up with his boys, and someone gets greedy for the reward money that cop association put up."

"That's only twenty five thousand. Might be enough to tempt John Q Public. Nobody else."

"We might not have much luck until this cools off."

"I got two words for you: Katherine Hudak. It's not going to cool off for Johnny and his boys. I'll see to that. They killed a cop. If they didn't, they know who did. They all need to burn in hell."

"Including Beck?"

"Yep. His mouth's no prayer book. Something's not quite right here." Hendrickson sat up in his chair. He ignored the cracking sounds his back made as his spine straightened up. "Later on we're gonna head back out to County General, take another shot at him."

"Good cop, bad cop?"

"That'll work. They're gonna release him in a day or too." Hendrickson laughed. "Heard some rumors that he's on the outs with the administration. We need to stir things up, see how he handles it."

Someone out in the hall screamed.

"No--nononononononono---"

Hendrickson and Reidy froze.

The sound wasn't playful, or even boisterous. People being murdered screamed like that, loud, raw, the one last noise they would ever make in this life, as though saying _no_ over and over again could stop whatever was happening to them.

Other screams followed, different somehow, like the screamer was seeing something they really didn't want to see.

Reidy pulled out his weapon just as Hendrickson stood up with his gun in his right hand.

"No..no…no…please don't, please--"

Hendrickson took point, and Reidy followed him out.

* * *

They finished up at the Bender place just as the moon rose full and bleached bone white overhead.

That was fitting somehow.

Stevie walked over with the remote control unit in her hand. She glanced at Bobby and then Aaron. Bobby nodded.

"Here." She handed the small box off to Aaron.

"So…what do I do?"

Stevie shrugged. "Flip the red top open, push the button. That's it."

Aaron nodded.

Doors slammed all around. The heavy dump truck rumbled past with a lighter sound now that its open-box bed in the rear was empty. The rest of the hunters climbed into their cars and trucks, and one by one they filed out down the road to the highway. Stevie pulled her panel truck into the next to last slot at the end of the line.

Bobby drove Aaron's truck. They were the last vehicle out.

Aaron sat there staring at the box in his hand. He thought of his boys, Clyde and Emmett. They were full of life in his memory, and that was the way Aaron wanted to remember them.

Bobby stopped the truck at the gate and waited. He and Aaron watched as the cars and trucks in front of them disappeared into the night. Any direction now was fine, as long as it was far away from this hellhole. They were half a mile from the house. Half a mile. Maybe Bobby wouldn t have taken the word of anyone else on this, but he trusted Stevie.

"You ready, Aaron?"

Aaron stared down at the metal box in his hand. This was payback, sure enough, but it seemed bloodless somehow. He would have preferred his vengeance up close and personal. "Yeah, but…you sure about this? I hear tell you lost something back there too."

Bobby shrugged. "Doesn't compare with what they took from you, Aaron. Go ahead."

Aaron flipped the red cover open.

* * *

Lee Bender stared at his body. It lay on its side, just the way Jerry had left him that night. The humans dumped salt all around, and it looked like snow all over his shoulders, his head, and the rest of his body. Two of those weird looking boxy things were in his grave too.

The restless dead milled all around. They were silent, their pale grey faces slack and uncomprehending. They didn't seem to realize what was going on. Lee didn't know exactly what was going on either, but he knew they were all screwed somehow.

The dark night air rippled with a high pitched, shrieking sound. Lee tried to rise up, but he was yanked down to the broken, salted earth. Everything turned bright white. The color seared into him. His eyes melted in their sockets, and his spirit form ran like melted candle wax.

Lee screamed.

* * *

Next post? This weekend. Dean reacts to what happened at Sweetbriar, and John goes after Beck.


	38. best laid schemes

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment and not for profit.

* * *

**_GCP 38 – best laid schemes_**

**_Then_**

Half of the employees at Sweetbriar woke up with headaches on that last day.

Acting Chief of Security Calvin Grissom drove in with his eyes slitted against the morning sun. His head hurt like hell. Wearing sunglasses didn't help. Neither did dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin.

Grissom wasn't surprised he felt this crappy lately. The guards were on edge; had been for some time. According to Becky in Administration they were still getting calls from media outlets all over the world now. Two stooges from the Eff Bee Eye had even set up shop in that spare office right next to the infirmary. Everyone played "Let's Pretend" now: let's pretend there's nothing wrong here, let's pretend we have nothing to hide. It was tiresome and fucking nerve racking and it was something they all had to do now, anyway. Best to keep up far Doc Weddington had been surprisingly effective in blocking any further media access to the facility for the good of the patients. All they had to do was hold on and those bastards at Fox News and the rest of the vultures would find another, newer sixty second sound byte and move on.

Cal knew that Gabriel, that Dean kid, was bad news the moment he'd laid eyes on him all those months ago. Beck's little fuck buddy, his pet bitch, had turned out to be far more trouble than he was worth. Grissom had been around a few times when they'd hit the freak with a needle; maybe an air bubble in the syringe would have really calmed ol' green eyes down, saved everyone some trouble and called it a day.

The outside world would never understand what had to be done inside those walls. The outside world wouldn't want to be bothered anyway, because if they did, the freaks wouldn't be locked up in the first place.

As he walked into the Administration building Grissom felt the ache in his head flare up, bright and heavy. It was crazy. He heard this voice inside his head, soft and solemn.

_I will lift the veil of secrecy around this place._

Grissom closed his eyes and for a moment colors flared underneath his eyelids, bright orange and deep soft gold.

_They will be unable to lie, unable to pretend anymore…_

He felt better when he opened his eyes.

A few employees did call in sick, but the majority of them dutifully trudged in to work. A paycheck was a paycheck, and they had bills to pay. Another day, another dollar. Beck was due to come back in a couple of days; the unofficial betting pool gave even odds that things were about to get ugly.

They had_ no_ idea.

* * *

Sam cleared his throat and tried again. Louder, this time.

"Christo."

Dad didn't move, didn't turn around. For the first time in his life Sam didn't know what to do next. This was _Dad_, after all: John Winchester was supposed to be tall, dark, and scary as hell at all times. That was the way John looked when Sam walked into the room upstairs. Might have been hours ago. Sam wasn't sure. All he could remember was that hard glint in Dad's eyes, the way his mouth thinned into a firm line as he stood up and turned to leave.

_Not now. I don't have time for that emo bullshit of yours, Sam._

Sam got it. At least, he _thought_ he did.

Dean slept through it all, curled up on his side, pale and docile as a week old kitten. Dean reeked of whiskey (_No worries, son. Here's a bottle of Jack. Knock yourself out._); that pissed Sam off like nothing else ever could. Dean deserved_ more_, deserved _better_ than that, even if Dean himself didn't think so.

Especially if Dad didn't think so.

Sam glanced down at his fist, uncurled his fingers slightly. Missouri's voice echoed inside his head, soft and somehow weary: _I know you think you have the answer to Dean's problem at your fingertips, Sam, but you don't._

It would have been so easy. He thought about it. Step over to Dean's bedside, lean down, and use a light touch this time. Draw out as much of that damn spirit residue as he could, gently, lightly this time. The trouble was, Sam wasn't sure he could do it without Dean waking up. He was also pretty sure that Lim wasn't the least bit interested in light, gentle, or humane.

_There is one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain..._

Sam would hurt Dean if he did that. That was the whole point.

If he survived Dean would hate him. Dad would too.

They wouldn't miss him after he was gone.

Dean slept, too quiet, too pale, and Sam found himself backing away. Dad had his attention now, pulled him in like a magnet. They'd been at odds ever since _Sammy_ became _Sam_, and tension and anger rose up between them, raw and prickly, like a wall of thorns. The time he left for Stanford would be polite conversation compared to this. This was going to be the mother of all dust-ups.

The smart play would have been to heal Dean first, and then confront Dad. Sam knew that, but he couldn't do it. Dean would wake up. Sam was sure of that, and he couldn't take seeing that panicked, stricken look in Dean's eyes when he did.

_"Sam…pl-pleas'…yuh…you're…killin'…me…"_

Dad first, then Dean. Maybe he could even ask Dean's permission first. Right, that would work. Dean couldn't possibly want to live pale and weak like that for the rest of his life, could he?

And after that, well...the credit cards were good, good enough for a plane ticket to Washington DC. All three Winchesters were now in the Featured Fugitives section of the FBI website. Sam briefly wondered how far he'd get.

He could make this work somehow. He could. Dean and John were a perfect pair. Sam could take the weight for Hudak, for everything. It was the least he could do.

It was a plan. Maybe not a perfect one, but a plan nonetheless. It was doable. Sam thought that, right up until the moment he walked up and saw John on his knees.

The back door to the Roadhouse opened and then banged shut.

Sam stared hard at the man walking across the blacktop, but he couldn't make out the face at this distance. Short, dark hair. Purple Henley shirt, faded blue jeans, workboots. Wasn't Bill Harvelle. No limp. No mullet either, so it couldn't be Ash.

Bastard walked like he owned the damn place. That easy confidence pissed Sam off so much his right hand curled up into a fist. Dean moved like that, once upon a time, four years ago, before he disappeared into the night with the Benders.

The newcomer walked past Jo's brown Mustang, disappeared behind Ellen's blue pick-up truck and then momentarily re-appeared near Ash's car. Even after all this time Sam still couldn't tell what make or model the car was. It had four wheels and the original paint job had been stripped down to grey primer.

Sam eased up alongside the white smuggler van. He hesitated for the barest second, drew himself up to his full height. As he stepped out into the open he used his command voice. That was sure to startle the intruder, make him take a step back at least. "What the hell do you think you're doing out here?"

The way those wide green eyes rolled upwards was classic. "Dude. Chill."

Sam's legs buckled. Everything inside and around him crashed to a screeching, jolting halt. He threw out his left palm and leaned heavily against the side of the van.

"D-Dean? Oh, God. Dean?" Sam whispered out loud.

Dean ducked his head slightly. "Yeah. It's me." He stuck both hands in his jeans pockets, then stared down at his scuffed workboots. The swagger was gone. Dean looked young and suddenly unsure of himself, as though he wasn't really certain how Sam would react to the sight of him.

"Your…your hair." Sam edged forward. He stared down at the top of his brother's head. Dean's hair was dark brown now, almost black, all the way down to the roots. "It's…it's…." God, he knew he sounded stupid, but he didn't care. He couldn't think of the right word.

"Darker, college boy," Dean drawled with a shrug.

Sam nodded dully. "Yeah. Darker."

Another careless shrug. "Blondes suck, y'know? Unless they're chicks." The corners of Dean's mouth tugged upwards in a smile, wistful, somehow shy.

Sam crossed the distance between them with one stride. Dean gave a startled yet pleased yelp as Sam's arms wrapped around him and squeezed, fiercely.

* * *

_I will lift the veil of secrecy around this place, _Castiel whispered serenely._ They will be unable to lie, unable to pretend anymore…_

Jimmy nodded. He opened his eyes and bore witness.

Cal Grissom stood in the middle of the visitors' room at Sweetbriar. He looked around at the patients and their families, but all he really thought about was the solid, dependable weight of his metal baton in his hand. He couldn't remember taking the nightstick out of his locker, but he must have.

All the stress and tension of the last few days, all the worry about Beck coming back lifted up from Cal's shoulders. His headache was gone. He didn't have a care in the world. There was no need to hide how he felt anymore.

He never liked coddling these freaks anyway.

The nearest one within reach was a waste of space named Jack Coleman. He was a twitchy, mousy looking bastard. Grissom presumed the two old fossils sitting at the table with him were Coleman's not so proud parents. It was pretty clear that the freak didn't fall far from the tree. All three of them looked inbred, dull-eyed and totally worthless.

Grissom tightened his grip on his nightstick. He stepped in close and brought the baton down squarely on the top of Coleman's head. The crack of hard wood against bone was mighty satisfying, and Cal didn't even flinch as the blood spray splattered him across his face and chest of his uniform.

The old broad sitting next to Jacky Mouse screamed like a fire whistle. She wasn't supposed to make noise like that. This was a hospital. Things were supposed to be _quiet_ inside a hospital. Or was that a library?

Cal couldn't remember which, but it didn't matter. He was in charge. He whacked her upside the head too.

Daddy Mouse tried to object, but it was no contest. Three dead mice. See how they run? Not any more.

Grissom's face was splattered with warm wetness and what felt like wood chips (_bone fragments and brain_, the coroner said later on) but he felt fine. _Felt great!_

For a wild moment he thought about Beck's pet, that pretty fuckable freak with the weird looking eyes. He wanted to go into Freak Boy's cell and do him a favor by bashing his fucking brains out, but then he remembered that Freak Boy was long gone by now.

Oh well. Cal grinned to himself, his teeth stark white against his bloodstained skin. He had plenty to work with right here.

* * *

Sam hugged Dean, hugged him hard as if he were trying to erase the gap of four lost years between them.

Dean hugged Sam back just as hard. He felt normal, not hot and feverish. Sam closed his eyes, tilted his nose downwards into Dean's hair and breathed in Dean's scent. Clean. Peach scented. Huh.

Sam sniffed again.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean growled softly, with mock annoyance.

"Nothing," Sam murmured.

"Keep those giant paws where I can see 'em, McPerv."

Sam laughed. There was no hint of Gabriel Bender. Dean looked healthy, felt strong. The wonder of this new, improved Dean was this: he didn't smell like whiskey anymore. Dean had most likely drunk that entire bottle of booze he'd taken from the Roadhouse in one sitting. He shouldn't have been upright, much less conscious.

_Must've burned some of it off,_ Sam thought to himself. _Just like Missouri said._

"Sam, where's Dad?"

Sam froze. _Oh, crap._

Too late. Tension stiffened every muscle in Dean's body.

"I said, where's Dad?" The edge in Dean's voice was more apparent this time.

"Uh…he's…he's…"

Dean shoved Sam backwards. That was more than enough to remind Sam that Dean was still solid muscle. Dean's expression hardened as he flicked a glance first at Sam, then past him at the back lot.

Dad still knelt there, shoulders slumped, head down. He hadn't moved.

Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously. It was the damndest thing: Sam swore he could feel the air around Dean heat up. Dean's skin took on a slight rosy tint, but he wasn't weak or feverish. Far from it.

Dean was pissed.

He brought his right hand up, straightened out his arm and drove the palm of his hand straight into Sam's chest. Hard.

Being hit was bad enough. It was the shock of being hit, but by Dean this time, _Dean_, not _Gabriel_. Heat from Dean's skin penetrated Sam's shirt, blasted into his skin. His chest muscles tightened painfully; Sam's throat hitched as he tried to catch his breath. He stumbled backwards, tripped over his feet and landed hard on his ass.

"You saw Dad was like that, and all you did was stand there and watch?" Dean snarled. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam opened his mouth to say _something_. Anything. Didn't matter.

Dean was already gone.

* * *

Guard Andy Brinkman pulled into his parking space, turned off the ignition and sat there for a moment. He'd had a headache for the past couple of days. Sinus, probably. He always got like that when the weather turned warmer.

Andy got out, walked back and popped the trunk. He pulled the machete out of its sheath and stared at his reflection in the blade. He still didn't know why he'd even put the damn thing in the trunk this morning. It was a whim, that's all.

The gleam of the steel in the sunlight bothered him somehow.

The blade was too clean, too bright. It was begging to be used.

Andy turned and walked towards the administration building with the machete in his hand. He felt good, better than he'd felt in weeks.

_They will be unable to lie, unable to pretend anymore…_

He had some things to discuss with some of his co-workers, and some of the patients too.

* * *

It happened too quick, too fast for a warning shot. The guard smiled at them, wide and cheerful. He lifted the fire ax and ran forward. Hendrickson and Reidy fired until the crazy sumbitch went down.

He never stopped smiling.

The hallway was littered with chopped off limbs and bodies.

One down, more to go.

It was easy to identify the perps from the victims. The assailants were all guards. They went about the business of killing pretty easily; they seemed downright cheerful about it.

Ten minutes later Reidy and Hendrickson barricaded themselves in an office with eight other survivors. Hendrickson stood with his gun aimed at the door, but it seemed that he and his group were out of sight, out of mind. No one knocked on the door or tried to get in. The air roared with the screams of the living and the moans of the dying outside.

Whatever was happening was too big for them to handle. Hendrickson took out his cell and called for help, from the local cops, the FBI, National Guard, hell, _everybody_.

* * *

Jimmy sat quietly on the bench and watched Cal Grissom beat several people to death with his nightstick. The visitor's room was a wreck of broken chairs and tables, battered, broken bodies and blood. Some of the people did manage to get out the doors before Grissom reached them.

Some didn't. Grissom didn't seem to care one way or another.

He turned towards Jimmy and smiled at him. Grissom's brown uniform was slick with blood, from his chest down to his feet. His expression was cheerful enough. He'd always smiled at Jimmy before, but the smile never reached his eyes.

It did now.

Grissom shifted the grip of the nightstick from one hand to the next. He rolled his shoulders like a batter at a baseball game stepping up to the plate.

_Be not afraid,_ Castiel whispered. Jimmy nodded.

Jimmy raised his head and stared Grissom directly in the eyes.

* * *

John's eyes were open, but he was lost in his own mind, held there by Dean's voice.

_I fought 'em off, I did…_

_My boy,_ John thought. _I couldn't stop it. Couldn't find you in time…_

_He called me pretty they shocked me over and over _

"Hey, Dad."

John blinked. The voice was soft, almost hesitant.

"Dad?"

The corners of John's mouth twitched upwards in a grin. Better. That voice was so much damn better. He'd rather listen to _that_ Dean voice, not the one that was trapped inside his own head, the eerily calm one that talked about leather restraints, red pills, brutality, violation and loss.

The world slipped sideways, and John found himself back in Lawrence, Kansas, back before dark smoke shrouded the world and the smell of burning flesh was so thick in the air he could hardly breathe. Dean was bright and whole and unbroken then. Kid was so excited about Sammy coming home from the hospital he nearly bounced off the walls. _Gonna have a brother, Daddy, gonna be the best big brother in the whole world--_

"Dad?"

Four year old Dean stood right in front of him, shiny blond hair and all. John's right hand shook as he raised it. He reached out, put his hand up and touched the side of Dean's face.

Stubble. Light stubble. John squinted. Dean looked different somehow. Bigger.

Soft focus slowly sharpened to crystal clarity. Broad shoulders, wide green eyes and those impossibly long eyelashes, dark and sooty against pale, freckled skin.

Four year old Dean was a hell of a lot bigger now.

Dean's slightly crooked smile grew a little wider. The kid was pale, but that cut on his face and the bruises were barely noticeable.

_Jesus, _John thought._ He looks good. He looks healthy._

John looked down at himself and for a moment he wondered why he was on his knees like that. Dean knelt right in front of him, and the look of concern on the kid's face bothered the hell out of John.

"Hey, Dad."

John reached out. He ignored the shaking in his hands, the stiffness and clumsiness in his fingers. Dean appeared not to notice. John cupped the side of Dean's face and Dean leaned into the touch.

"You're not hot anymore," John muttered hoarsely.

Dean snorted. "Dude, you're my Dad and all, but just so you know, I'm _always_ hot."

John laughed.

They stared at each other hard for a long moment that filled the sunlit space around them. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation. They'd always been able to communicate with just a glance, or a slightly quirked eyebrow. Sam used to joke that they were just like an old married couple, able to finish each other's sentences. Smartass kid.

Those four years apart didn't mean a thing now.

_I'm here. Dad, it's me. _

_I see you, kiddo. I really do…_

John raised his hand, ruffled the top of Dean's hair with his fingers. Dean almost wriggled with pleasure. John dropped his hand down to Dean's shoulder. He raised his head slightly, stared at Dean's hair, then met Dean's eyes once more. _Color's darker._

_I like it._

_Okay. _John's nod was so slight an onlooker would have missed it.

Dean didn't.

"We havin' a chick flick moment now?"John rumbled.

"Who, us?" Dean shook his head. "Hell no."

"Speaking of chick flick, where's your ---" John turned around just in time to see Sam stagger to his feet behind him. The younger son looked disheveled and thoroughly miserable. He leaned against the side of Ellen's smuggler van and refused to even look in their direction.

Dean groaned.

John turned around and glared at his eldest son. "You smacked Sam?"

"Uh…yeah." Dean grinned, weak and cheesy. He shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Did you hit anybody else while I was out here?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to?"

John scowled. Dean took that as a no.

"Dude, you gotta stop doing this. You already hit Ellen." John sighed. Well, maybe it was time to give this fatherhood thing another chance. "You can't go around hitting family like that, Dean."

"Ellen's not---"

John raised one eyebrow at him and Dean shut up. "I asked her to cut your hair. You gonna hit anybody, you may as well hit me."

Dean looked horrified. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. You're going to apologize to her." Dean opened his mouth to object. John shook his head. "I'm not _asking_ you. I'm _telling _you, son."

"Okay." Dean flicked a glance down at John's hands. His knuckles were bruised and slightly swollen. "Who'd _you_ hit?"

John glanced at his hands. He knew where Dean was going with this. "Tree."

"Uh huh. A tree," Dean said slowly. That mischievous gleam in his eye was just like old times. "What'd it do, pull a knife on you?"

"Not one more word, you hear me?"

"Okay." Dean looked around the field and the smirk on his face eased a little. "We end up out here a lot, don't we?"

John huffed. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."

The look Dean gave him was curious, puzzled.

"What," John huffed. "You gonna hit me too?"

"Maybe. If you don't tell me what happened out here before."

_Please, Lord, don't let him remember._

Before there was no way in hell Dean would ever have told John what happened at Sweetbriar. Dean would have been embarrassed by such revelations. _Don't ask, don't tell_ was the Winchester way. Always had been. Things were different now, and as he spoke the words John wondered how much everything had changed, and whether he could do anything to soften the blow.

He leaned forward, motioned for Dean to help him up. John's kneecaps groaned and complained at the sudden change in position, but with Dean's help he was finally back on his own two feet again.

John dusted his palms off on his jeans. Dean's body language was tense, yet his face was curiously blank, as though he dreaded hearing whatever John had to say. He'd accept whatever it was. John knew he would.

"Nothing happened. You were sick. I followed you out. Sat with you for a while. Then we headed back in."

It wasn't a lie. Well, not exactly.

"I remember you telling me that I was okay."

"Yeah," John nodded. "I did that."

The blankness on Dean's face smoothed out, was gone in an eyeblink.

_He doesn't remember telling me about Sweetbriar. Thank God. He doesn't. Sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes. _

John clapped Dean on his shoulder. "Come on. Guess we better head on in."

* * *

Bobby Singer parked next to Jo Harvelle's mustang. The Chevelle was pointed in the opposite direction, nose pointed towards the back lot. He turned off the ignition and sat there for a moment. They'd head back to his place the next morning. By now Rumsfeld had probably eaten all the food Bobby had put out and ripped the yard up because he was bored. It'd be good to see that old mutt again.

Movement on the back lot. Someone was coming. Bobby dropped his hand down to the stock of the shotgun by the drivers side door. He stared hard for a moment, then pulled his hand back.

John and Sam Winchester walked out of the back lot of the Roadhouse. There was someone else with them.

John was in the middle, just as dark and imposing as he ever was. Sam was on his right. Sam frowned up a little and rubbed at his chest as he walked.

Bobby stared at the third man on the left. Dark hair. Gunfighter's strut.

_Well, I'll be damned. _Bobby laughed out loud.

Dean.

He looked healthy, bright eyed. That short, dark haircut of his was miles away from Gabriel's paleness, and that suited Dean just fine. They walked as a family now, and Bobby recognized the look: _We're back. We're together again, you sonsofbitches._

Never mind that it was highly likely that in a couple of hours John and Sam would be at each others' throats. Never mind that Dean still had a long way to go before he truly recovered. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but he wasn't alone either.

_Got wall to wall Winchesters now,_ Bobby thought to himself. _This is gonna be quite a show._

* * *

_**Now (Two days later)**_

Beck fumbled with his door keys. He finally put the right key in the lock and stepped inside. He flipped the light switch and wasn't really that surprised when the lights didn't come on.

Damn. He couldn't remember if he'd paid the damn bill. Probably not.

The last two days had been an unholy mess.

The only good part about this was he'd been nowhere near Sweetbriar when Grissom and the other guards went on their killing spree. It was unheard of, a group of people staging mass murder like that. 127 people dead, patients, other staff, and visitors, including Grissom and the twenty guards who had been shot down by those FBI agents and the cops who came to the scene.

Several patients were missing. For some reason the only one Beck could remember was that Jimmy Novak.

The other weird thing couldn't possibly be right. Rumor was that Grissom's eyes had been burned out of their sockets.

Beck cursed to himself as he walked into the end table in the dark. _Fuck. _He kept the flashlights in the kitchen. It was pitch dark, and his eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet. He put his hand out and groped his way along, and as he did he thought of Doctor Weddington. The good doctor wasn't even at work when the festivities started. He'd taken a sick day, secure in the knowledge that the now departed and unlamented Cal Grissom had everything well in hand.

Beck snorted. _Good luck with that._

His fingers skated across what felt like worn smooth leather. Beck stopped short. He squinted and blinked into the darkness, and the features of the man standing in front of him in the dark gradually swum into focus.

Heavy stubble. Broad shoulders. Beck saw death in those dark eyes.

_McGillicuddy._

A bolt of pure fear shot up Beck's spine. He tried to backpedal, he wanted to, but he couldn't move fast enough.

_Wrong…not McGillicuddy. Winchester…like...like the rifle... _

Something that felt like bone and skin, hard as steel, crashed into Beck's face.

_Daddy's home,_ Beck thought hazily. Everything around him faded into black.

* * *

John Winchester and Nathan Beck. I figure those two deserve their own chapter. To be posted later on this week.


	39. run on for a long time

_**A/N:**_ The views expressed by Nathan Beck are _his_, and his alone. It's his take on the Winchesters, and as usual, he's got it all wrong. There's rough language and rough visuals ahead, so you have been warned. Also chapter title taken from the song _God's Gonna Cut You Down._ I love the version by Johnny Cash.

* * *

**_Chapter 39 - run on for a long time_**

Tall orange flames followed Beck up out of the dark. He could smell smoke in the air, but that wasn't the only thing that made him stutter and cough. What splashed against his face felt cold and wet, and for one brief panic-stricken moment he imagined it was gasoline. It stung his skin, burned the inside of his nose and mouth. He jerked backward and grunted as his back thumped heavily into something hard and solid. Felt like he was hugging himself; he couldn't move his arms, something pressed hard against the space between his legs.

"Come on, wake the hell up," a voice rumbled.

Beck breathed in great gulps of air.

…_water…_

Something hard and warm slammed into the side of his head. His head wobbled from side to side as he opened his eyes.

Everything was hazy at first, but after a few frantic eyeblinks Beck could see clearly enough.

" 'bout time," the man in black drawled. "Don't want you to sleep through _this_, princess."

"Elroy…" Beck said muzzily. That…wasn't…right…

"John Winchester. Like the rifle," Beck mumbled.

Winchester nodded calmly.

Beck looked down at himself. There was a disconnect, at first, a moment in which he couldn't recognize what bound him. He stared dully at the white material, until his mind finally churned out a name to fit what he was looking at.

White canvas.

Blonde leather straps.

Shiny silver duct tape.

He had on a straightjacket. He was sitting in a wooden chair.

He was duct-taped to the chair.

The more Beck stared, the clearer things became. He had a straightjacket like this.

At the house.

At_ his_ house….

This sonofabitch was in his house.

Winchester laughed. He looked dark and scruffy underneath the bright overhead lights. "I've heard of people bringing their work home with 'em, but you take the cake."

Beck forced himself to take deep breaths. Something was wrong here, and he couldn't put his finger on it. His chest itched underneath the white canvas. The straightjacket strap between his legs was pulled too tight.

Beck glanced around the room. Bare brick walls, dirty grey concrete floors. Aside from the chair, the only other objects in the room was a large wooden table and a small olive drab canvas duffel bag. The only door was painted a faded green color, and from what he could see it opened out onto a dimly lit hallway. This place had the look of an abandoned warehouse or factory somewhere.

Beck cleared his throat. "So. This the part where you fuck me up?"

Winchester shrugged carelessly. "Nah. I already started that a couple of hours ago." He reached into his jacket pocket and Beck willed himself not to flinch.

The cell phone looked small and puny in that large, calloused hand.

"Let's see now…" Winchester thumbed the buttons, looked at the small screen and smiled. He smelled faintly of gasoline. And smoke. "Here we go."

He held the cell up in front of Beck's nose. Beck stared at it, nearly cross-eyed, until the cell was moved back far enough for him to focus on the captured image.

"Nice house," the bastard rumbled. "Well, at least it _was_."

Beck squinted as Winchester scrolled through several images. A close-up of flames shooting out of windows. Another shot, further away this time, just far enough back for the house number to be revealed. .

"You…you burned down my house?" Beck rasped hoarsely.

Another casual shrug. "Yep. Just before we left."

"You son of a bitch…"

"And your SUV," the man added mildly. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, then leaned back against the table behind him and folded his arms. Sumbitch looked pretty damn pleased with himself. "You had a lot of chemicals in your basement. Made the fire catch that much quicker. I could've called the cops, let them see that drug lab of yours. Watching it all burn was more fun." Winchester nodded at the straightjacket. "I saved you a party favor, though."

Beck made quick calculations inside his head. His rainy day fund was about one hundred eighty thousand now, thanks mostly to the sales of those devil's sunrise pills. Rainy day, hell; this was the freaking monsoon season right now. As much as he loved money, Beck loved living and breathing more. He could always make more money.

_Backwoods hoodoo survivalist. _That was what the black fed called this John Winchester. John boy probably financed his operations using his kids. Judging by the way he allowed Beck to grope him at Rae's Pub that day, it was obvious the youngest, that Sam, was a pro. Dean had a face and a body made for fucking. It was very likely Winchester trained his boys himself.

That would explain Dean's Daddy issues, although Beck just couldn't see the resemblance between him and Papa. Winchester was older. They were both dark haired with stubble; Winchester's was heavier and had grey in it. Having Daddy diddle him all the time and living that life might have been the reason Dean cracked up in the first place. Couldn't take it anymore, so he went mental and left, but he couldn't escape.

Daddy tracked him down, finally came to Sweetbriar to get his pretty little money maker back.

Beck considered the possibility then, that he might be able to get out of here in one piece. He hadn't killed the kid. He just fucked him whenever he wanted to. That wasn't worth dying over, right? This was strictly business.

So far whatever damage Beck took was just the cost of doing business. He was still alive, still had all his limbs and fingers and toes, as far as he could tell.

_Get your ego out of this. He's fucking with you, that's all. Time to talk, and talk fast. _

Beck cleared his throat. "I got a proposition for you."

A curt nod was the only answer.

"You wanna get paid for him, is that it? Get paid for the time I spent with him? All right. I've got money."

_More than you'll ever make out on the road, old man._

Something dark flickered in Winchester's eyes, and then was gone just as quickly. There was no other reaction, other than a slight tensing of those broad shoulders.

All right then. Papa had the look of a man who knew the value of a dollar.

Payment was due.

"Dean's a sweet kid. Real fuckable. But I guess you already knew that, right? He's rough trade, huh? I saw all those scars on him. Hell, I tasted every one of 'em."

No reaction. Not even a twitch. That made Beck feel better. Bolder. This _was _business, after all.

"I'm clean. I used a condom every time. I figure six month's worth wear and tear." Beck shrugged. He felt better about this all of a sudden. "Probably did less damage to him than some of his dates ever did."

"Is that a fact?" Winchester said quietly.

_Yeah, Elroy._ Beck tried not to smile. _That's a fact._

Beck nodded instead. "I can get my hands on sixty thousand. You let me go, you can have it all. You get me to the bank in the morning, let me walk away alive, as far as I'm concerned none of this happened."

"Uh huh. Sixty thousand, huh?"

"That's right. We'll be square after that. No harm, no foul."

"Huh." The man seemed to freeze in place, unblinking, as though he was frankly surprised by the offer. Dean wasn't worth all that, of course. He was disobedient and mouthy, even drugged up, but he was still tight and gorgeous looking besides. Beck had to admit he did enjoy hearing the kid moan _(please…more…harder)_: the sense memory of Dean's tongue moving slowly against his skin sent a small shiver up Beck's spine.

"Okay." Winchester stood up, reached underneath his black jacket and pulled this oversized Bowie knife from his belt sheath.

Beck tried not to smile as the man cut the duct tape wound around his chest with swift strokes.

Winchester slipped the knife back into the sheath. Beck leaned forward and the straps of the straightjacket were unbuckled. Beck shrugged out of the jacket and let it fall to the floor.

His arms and legs felt stiff. His balls ached. Head was a little fuzzy, but it was all right now. Money talked, bullshit walked. Those dead presidents Beck dangled in front of this hick talked louder and clearer than any morals or family ties ever did. It was the way of the world.

"You okay?" Papa rumbled.

Beck nodded.

"Good." Winchester's left arm lashed out like a piston. His fist slammed into the center of Beck's face. The sound of cartilage crunching made Papa smile.

For a brief second Beck realized he'd been hit, and then everything went white.

* * *

The imiia curled in on itself. Hunger rippled through its slick pearl grey skin. When that lone hunter came in the night six months ago the creature was caught so very easily, starving and then trapped inside the box it lay in. It was so weak it didn't fight much when the hunter came back and bled it with that silver knife of his. Its blood was thin and clear, like water.

It pushed against the walls, imagined sinking its member into warm, living flesh. The images made the creature mewl and chatter out loud.

* * *

Beck stared up in shock.

"N-not fair…w-we we had a d-damn d-deal," he wheezed foggily. Yep, sounded like his nose was broken, all right.

"Fair? Fair? I'll give you the same damn chance you gave my son." Winchester lashed out with his left foot. Steel toed work boots, by the feel of it. The impact lifted Beck up off the floor. Four of his ribs cracked, a bright, quick sound like brittle branches snapping, and the jolt he felt when he hit the ground all sprawled out on his belly was just one more layer of pain on top of another.

Beck gasped as fingers twined in his hair, gripped tight and pulled him upwards. He twisted his head around and sank his teeth into the side of Winchester's leg, nearly gagged as the sharp taste of fear and black cloth filled his mouth.

"g-got m-more…I'll – I'll pay…" He hated the way his voice broke, like some shaky punk bitch trying to talk his way out of a beatdown.

The fingers in Beck's hair tightened and yanked upwards painfully. Beck suddenly found himself nose to nose with the man.

"Yeah. You sure will." Papa John winked at him, his eyes alight with a dark, murderous glint.

Right then and there Beck was pretty damn sure they weren't on the same page.

_Fucked...I'm fucked…_

Beck stopped thinking then. Adrenaline surged through his body, made him almost light-headed. He threw punches, watched as his fists connected, face, chest and stomach, saw the bruises darken Winchester's face, felt the man's blood on his knuckles.

They stood toe to toe trading punches, and the bastard would not back off.

Everything slowed down as Winchester's right fist slammed into Beck's mouth, followed by a another fist to the ribs. White hot pain flared. Beck howled as he lunged forward, head lowered. They took a few stumble-steps backward and landed on the table.

The back of John-boy's head bounced off the table with a satisfying thunk.

Beck was on top, knees on either side of the man. Winchester's arms were pinned against his body. Beck couldn't remember how or when he got his hands on the Bowie knife from Papa's belt sheath, but there it was, in his hand, light from the overheads reflecting off bright, clean steel.

Winchester looked dazed. Beck fisted the knife hilt and slammed it down.

Papa jerked his head sharply to the side. The tip of the blade dug into the tabletop less than an inch away from the side of his face.

Damn thing was stuck somehow.

"What?" Beck snarled. He worked the knife from side to side as he tried to free the blade and swipe it sideways into Winchester's head. "You didn't like hearing how I fucked your boy? Huh, Daddy?" Beck leaned down. "He used to beg me, all nice and sweet and rough. Harder…please…more…"

John Winchester growled, a low, thunderous rumble that vibrated the air between them.

He lifted his head and shoulders up, snapped his head forward. His forehead smashed directly into Back's already mangled nose, once, then twice.

"Shit!" Beck screamed. "SHIT!" He saw stars, he saw constellations. The knife slid free of the tabletop, and Beck blindly slashed down with it again.

There was a moment when he actually thought he'd gotten the fucker, imagined the blade hit something solid, but judging from the way Winchester was moving, that was false hope. The pain in Beck's nose was quickly joined by the further agony of a knee to the balls.

Beck's grip on the knife loosened. His knife arm was knocked sideways and in the next instant his head filled with a godawful ringing as both ears were cuffed hard enough to rock his head back.

His fingers twitched open, and the knife fell. Everything went blurry; he couldn't see where it went. It skittered across wood and then concrete as it dropped off the edge and slid across the floor.

A large calloused hand slid up, grabbed his left ear, twisted, pulled him down. There were so many blows Beck lost count, hits to his chin, mouth, chest and stomach, hard and fast. He nearly screamed again as Winchester twisted his ear even harder, felt like the bastard was trying to twist it right off, and then Beck stumbled backwards, flailing, wildly off balance. He turned, crashed into the wooden chair and as it fell backwards Beck rode it down to the floor and then face-planted right into dirty concrete.

Winchester was getting up. He could hear the grunt the man made, the rustle of his clothing, and that was more than enough to get Beck moving again. He scrambled forward. He had a good sense of where the door was, even though he still couldn't see worth a damn, so he headed for it.

More adrenaline, a quick jolt of fear that sharpened his sight to crystal clarity. Beck looked back.

Winchester raised up halfway from the table, on his elbows. That steady gaze of his was locked on Beck like a gunsight. Despite the bruises and the blood there was something _biblical_ about him. Old Testament. Wrath of god stuff. Like that avenging angel crap Grandma Beck used to rant about.

_You reap what you sow, Nattie. You reap what you sow. _

He'd pretended he was sad at her funeral, but he really wasn't.

_All I did was fuck that bastard son of his, _Beck thought to himself as he scrambled to his feet. _I didn't kill him. _

"_Come on, you sonofabitch! Come on!"_ Winchester roared.

Beck ran.

* * *

No sense in trying any of the other doors on either side of the hall. Beck didn't even try. He slammed into the door at the end of the hallway. The door swung open and he let his momentum carry him forward and down. Beck took the stairs four at a time. He slid down the railing, leaned against the walls, scraped his bare skin but none of that mattered now.

Down was better than up. Down meant street level. Down meant exits.

He could sense Winchester in the hallway above and behind him, a dark shadow, an enormous freak lightning storm on the horizon.

Beck ran, and he regretted the first time he ever saw wide moss green eyes, tasted freckled golden skin. He cursed the day he ever laid eyes on Dean Winchester, or John Doe 317, or whatever the hell the kid's name was.

The stairwell opened out into another dimly lit hallway and Beck kept right on running, stumbling, half crouching underneath the dim overhead lights. He couldn't catch his breath, but he couldn't stop. The skin on his chest itched, a maddening tingle that was just underneath his skin. He scratched at his skin as he stumble-stepped along, and it didn't matter that he dug his nails in so deep he drew blood.

That was the least of his worries now.

Beck nearly laughed out loud when he found that unlocked metal hatch in the floor. Down was better. Yeah, it was. Better than what was behind him.

He stared down into the hatch. It was more of the same. He had to move forward.

The air was stale, dusty at first. He could smell water, see pipes along the walls. Occasionally the concrete above his head rumbled and the pipes rattled.

There was a change in the air; he could feel it and smell it. He couldn't identify it at first, then it hit him.

Fresh air. Fresh air mixed with car exhaust, and even that smelled sweet, clean, and pure.

Traffic. Cars. Trucks.

He wasn't clear, not completely, not yet, but adrenaline surged through him, made him forget the pain in his left hand, the ache in his head and body. Street level, right over his head. That meant access tunnels.

That meant outside.

Beck turned and threw his left hand up. His fingers throbbed, but he managed to give the darkness beyond the lights the finger.

_Fuck you, Winchesters! Fuck all of you!_

He scrambled forward, towards the door at the opposite end. He unlatched the metal door, and nearly fell flat on his face as his legs bumped hard into the bottom ledge. The door was just an oversized hatch set in the wall.

Beck recovered enough to pull himself up and forward. There was a metal gate that stretched from ceiling to floor just inside the door. No lock, just a simple latch. Another push, and Beck stood inside.

The room was a small one. It was dim inside; he couldn't see much at first. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Beck could see this large wooden box inside. Looked like a coffin.

He scowled at this faint skritching sound, like claws on wood. Sewer rats, probably.

Damn. The itch in his skin flared up. He scratched absent-mindedly as he crept further into the room and looked around. No ladders, no access hatches that he could see. He'd have to backtrack then, see what those other side tunnels had to offer.

Beck turned around to leave. A man shape moved in the darkness in front of him, and he had just enough time to think, _Fuck, not again…_

The metal gate slammed into his face and everything went white.

* * *

Beck gradually realized he was sitting on the floor with his back against that large wooden box. The overhead lights were on, brighter than they had been before. Looked like somebody put new bulbs in the sockets.

His ass hurt. He was on the floor now, sitting with his right arm outstretched over the box lid. The box shook, as though it was excited that he was touching it. Something inside squeaked and purred. Beck jerked his arm away as though he'd been burnt by the contact.

He didn't like that sound.

He didn't like what he saw when he looked up.

The gate was padlocked, with a thick silver chain and a matching lock. John Winchester stood on the other side, in front of the open hatch.

Winchester was doing something.

For a moment Beck imagined he could smell gasoline; the sharp, pungent smell filled his nostrils, overrode any sense of caution he might have felt. Fear and panic froze his insides as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled towards the gate.

He could see more clearly now. There was another design on the inside part of the hatch, more circles within circles, drawn in red this time. Winchester held a large white sack in his hands, not a gas can. He poured out a thick line of something white and grainy on the floor in front of the gate.

He whistled while he worked. Beck didn't recognize the tune.

The smile Winchester aimed at him was bright and wicked, sharp enough to cut. He nodded, then went back to wordlessly laying down thick white lines.

Beck stared at the white stuff on the ground. Was that…was that _salt_? He stared at the symbols on the outside walls and the hatch.

_Fucking hillbilly freak._

Maybe the deal could still happen. Everybody could use money, right? It was all he had left. "You want more than I offered you. Is that what this is all about?"

Two things happened next, at the same time.

The itch in Beck's skin grew. It deepened, felt like something was burrowing underneath his skin, right down to the bone. Beck looked down and saw marks in his chest, red marks that raised up even as he stared open-mouthed at himself. It was some design, a circle with an upside down triangle in the middle. Symbols raised up out of his skin around the edges of the triangle, and God it hurt so bad he stumbled forwards against the gate.

The box behind him moved.

It jumped up in the air, about two inches off the floor.

Beck turned around, startled. The wooden lid bulged upwards and outwards, splintered, then cracked. The bottom and the sides split open as something pushed its way out.

Looking at it made Beck's eyes hurt.

Pearl grey skin shimmered underneath the lights. The mouth stretched from ear to ear, wide, sharklike. Beck saw large red eyes, lidless, slick pearl grey skin, and limbs that were too long and oddly bent in the wrong direction to be human. When it rose up to its full height it stood a full head taller than Beck.

The thing purred; it cooed to itself as those large red eyes roamed all over Beck's body.

It was happy.

"What the fuck is _that_?" Beck backed up. "_What the fuck is that-"_

"That? That's your new room-mate. They call it an imiia." Winchester shrugged, even though he knew Beck couldn't see the gesture.

A slit opened up between the creature's legs. Something red, scaly, and as thick as a man's arm slid out. The tip was streaked with thick white slime, and it wavered in the air in Beck's direction.

"Huh. Love at first sight. Imagine that."

Beck moaned, low and desperate.

"I figure you two got a lot in common." Papa John's tone was casual. He might have been discussing a baseball game, or something he'd seen on television. "You told me you had perks, remember, back at Sweetbriar? Well, in my line of work, this is one of mine."

"Your…your line of work?" Beck pressed backwards into the bars. It looked like he was trying to ooze his way out between them. It didn't work. Nothing did. He locked his knees to stop them from shaking, but that didn't work either. "What did you do to me -"

"I marked you. With its blood."

"You…you what?"

"Oh yeah. Just wanted to make sure the two of you got along, that's all."

Tears ran down Beck's face, trickled down his neck, and splashed onto the marks on his chest as the imiia slid across the floor at him. It clicked and chattered excitedly at him.

He turned around and frantically pulled at the gate with both hands. He didn't want to turn his back, he didn't, but he had to, he couldn't look…

Beck froze. The creature settled against him from behind. One of the limbs twined itself around his waist, then another, and then two more.

"Pl-please…" Beck moaned softly. "Please…" The imiia purred as it nuzzled and nipped at the space between his neck and shoulder.

"Sorry, what was that? Can't hear you," Winchester cocked his head to one side.

Beck jerked forward as a long snakelike tongue flicked across his left cheek, leaving a trail of slime behind. Something fumbled with the fly of his pants. His knuckles went white; he tightened his grip on the bars of the gate as his pants were lowered around his ankles.

"I didn't hurt Dean. I didn't," Beck whimpered.

Winchester's eyes narrowed. He leaned in close. "You were fucked the moment you touched my son," he whispered fiercely.

"I didn't hurt Dean. I didn't I didn't-" He was babbling now, useless words rushing out, and none of that mattered.

The imiia pushed into Beck from behind. His eyes bulged. "Don't leave me like this. Don't -"

Winchester stepped through to the outside and closed the door behind him.

He was filled, nearly bursting, and this was only the beginning. He didn't want this. Didn't want any of this...

Another push from behind, and Beck screamed, loud and long.

* * *

_Not gonna die,_ John thought dully. _I can't. I gotta see my boys._

He leaned back against the door, closed his eyes and breathed in and out, riding the wave of light-headedness and pain that threatened to send him to his knees. The blood on his black jacket was barely noticeable. His side ached and throbbed, a very solid reminder that he'd nearly fucked up big-time.

The smart play would have been to keep Beck in the straightjacket and drag him down to the tunnels like that. That would have been the smart play, but John wanted to kick Beck's ass.

For Dean.

And if John really wanted to admit it, for himself.

Beck tagged him with the knife upstairs during the fight. One good knife stroke, right in the side. John told himself that didn't matter, but he couldn't let on that he was hurt that badly. If he'd gotten his stupid ass killed, that would have been his own damn fault.

Beck screamed out once more, a low gobbling sound that trailed off.

John breathed, in and out, and he ignored the thumping and the low moans from the other side of the door. Sounded like Beck and the iimaii were getting pretty lively in there. It would keep Beck alive as long as it could. Days, weeks, maybe.

Neither one of them would_ ever_ see the outside world again.

He'd trapped the critter months ago, but he didn't kill it then.

And he didn't know why.

So he brought it here, kept it hidden away, for God only knew what. It came in handy. It all fit.

_God works in mysterious ways._ John laughed tiredly at the thought.

He opened his eyes. He very slowly pulled his jacket open, hiked his shirt up and looked at the field dressing he'd applied. A few spots of bright red blood marked the white gauze, but the tape held steady. He pushed himself up, back flat against the door, and waited. The room stopped swimming around him.

All right then. Time to man up, push though this.

He still had work to do.

John smiled a little as he thought of the cement mixer he'd stolen off that construction lot nearby.

Nothing was set in stone, or rock.

But soon, this entire tunnel would be.

* * *

Next: Dean, Sam and Bobby. One more chapter and an epilogue.


	40. past and present tense

_**A/N: **_Dream-time weirdness and extreme Dean angst straight ahead. Don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

_**Chapter 40 **__**- past and present tense**_

_**Then **_

It was Tuesday, and that meant pig in a poke.

Dean knew he was dreaming, and as far as dreams went this wasn't bad. Not bad at all. No blood, no screaming. The place could have been any diner they'd been to, somewhere, _anywhere, _totally normal. Worn red vinyl seats, scratched up chrome and one bored looking waitress who was old enough to be his mom. The air was filled with the scrape of silverware against plates and raised and lowered voices as other folks sat in the booths and tables around him and Sam. The smell of grease, meat and eggs wafted in from the kitchen. They had a nice booth, too, with a clear view of the door. That made Dean feel better, but that good feeling lasted less than three seconds.

"Dad's gonna die because of you," Sam said happily.

Dean's forkful of hash browns froze in midair. "What? What'd you say?"

"Oh, you heard me," Sam grinned as he picked up half a strawberry from his plate and popped it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and there it was again, that awful, too bright grin. "Dad's gonna die cleaning up your mess. And I screwed myself up for good because of you. You really think I wanted Lim to fuck me?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. He put down the fork and picked up the knife on the table next to his plate. He held it easily, willing and able to lash out in any direction with a simple flick of his wrist. "You're not Sam."

"Suit yourself." Sam shrugged. "I'm whoever you need me to be. Hey, I'm just saying what everybody's thinking anyway. We went to all that trouble to get you back, and you know what?" Sam leaned forward. "I really don't think you're worth all that effort, _bro'._"

Dean bared his teeth at him in a wolfish grin. "Is that a fact?"

"Yep. That's a fact." Dream Sam shook his head. "I mean, you _could_ be more _grateful_, you know? More in the moment? You've been moping around like some heartbroken little bitch ever since you found out what happened at the Bender place and Sweetbriar. How do you think that makes me and Bobby feel, dude? I mean, the man was maimed because of you."

Dean flinched.

"Yeah," Sam said, satisfied. "Finally! You could show him some appreciation. Let him take that mouth and that ass of yours for a spin. I mean, isn't that what you did for the last four years anyway?"

Bobby was suddenly_ there_ in Sam's place. The older man leaned forward, waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he reached out and stroked Dean's left cheekbone with his fingertips.

"Get your fucking hand off me!" Dean snarled as he jerked back. The knife in his hand was a silvery blur in the air as he lashed out with it.

Bobby vanished.

"Still feisty, huh?" Nathan Beck laughed. He licked at the blood on his fingers. "Always did like that in you, Dean. In you like my dick and my tongue, remember?" The man chuckled. He smiled as he sat back against the bench seat. "Well, well, look at you. Back in the wild pretending to be a man again."

Dean felt his breath stutter in his throat. as he stared at Beck. It was crazy, fucking mental, but he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. He knew better than that, knew he was sitting in this diner, had his leather coat and jeans and shirt and workboots on, but he was barefoot, dressed in those damn light blue patient scrubs again.

…_please…_

Thick blond hair hung down around his face and his ears.

…_fuck me…_

He was John Doe 317 again. He _wanted_ to please, he _needed_ to please.

"I can read you like a book, Dean. Let me show you."

Beck vanished. The hair at the back of Dean's neck stood up rigid and painful as he realized the bastard was standing behind him now. Fingers entwined in his short hair, somehow found a grip, and tightened. The back of Dean's head thumped against the top of the booth bench seat as his head was thrown back.

Beck bent over, teased Dean's mouth open with his tongue. Heat pooled in Dean's belly as Beck's tongue glided over his teeth, against his tongue. Beck's mouth pressed against his, and Dean found himself responding, wanting more. He didn't want this, didn't want any of this, but a part of him did.

…_.harder…_

Beck's right hand moved down Dean's tee shirt, then slipped underneath the black fabric, fingers spread slowly and possessively against bare skin. Dean's back arched as Beck's fingers cupped the cock of his jeans, then moved up to fondle both nipples.

…_more…_

He was suddenly yanked out of the booth and slammed face first into the nearest wall. The place was suddenly deserted, which made matters worse. This was his dream, and he had no influence over it at all.

…_take me…please…_

"You cut your hair," Beck said flatly as he kissed and nipped at the nape of Dean's neck.

_Doesn't like it, gonna shock me, I know it -_

"Color's too dark. Too bad. I liked you better blond."

_No, don't let him do this, don't -_

His brown leather jacket was gone somehow. Beck put one knee between Dean's legs, spread them even wider. He pulled the neck of Dean's tee shirt down, nipped at bare skin and painted the small bitemarks with his tongue. "Doesn't matter, Dean. None of this does. You can change the way you look, but all that doesn't change a damn thing inside."

Dean was already hard, pressed into the wall and from behind like that. He wanted the friction, he _needed_ it, and he hated himself for it.

'You couldn't face me again, and we both know why. You're my little bitch. Always have been, always will be. Nothing to be ashamed of. I handled you just like I handled Daddy."

Dean's eyes widened at the mention of John. "My Dad's gonna kill you."

"Yeah? Don't be so sure. See what happens when you leave, 317? You left Sweetbriar and everything went to hell. Your fault. What happened to your brother and your father and the Benders is your fault too."

"You're not real," Dean grated out. He wanted to push away from the wall, but he couldn't even raise his arms up. "None of this is fucking real."

Beck laughed. "Real poor choice of words there, boyo. You're right." Beck nodded. You gotta ask yourself, though…if you're really free, why are you dreaming about me in the first place?"

The scene shifted in an eyeblink. Dean's nostrils flared as he recognized the scents, the curiously musty scent of old books and stale air. Rotten meat smell too, wet blood. He looked down at himself, and those weren't his clothes, dingy brown and gold flannel shirt, heavy cotton olive drab jeans.

Warm breath against his right cheek made him shudder. Dean startled at the sensation.

"You're God's gift to me," Missy breathed into Dean's skin. She straddled his lap; they were belly to belly. Dean leaned into her touch as her slim arms encircled his neck, and her mouth nipped at the side of his jaw.

_Yeah…yeah…I am…_

She shifted her weight on his lap, pulled him to her even closer. She rubbed up against him, and the friction of her body against his made Dean's head swim. He wanted to sink himself into her, wanted to lose himself in her mouth and body.

"Missed you, Gabe," Missy purred.

"No…stop it…"

"Why? You never wanted me to stop before, Gabriel."

"That's not…That's not my name," Dean gasped. Her fingers slid across his right shoulder up his neck, carded the short hair at the nape of his neck.

_No…_

"Sssh." She pressed her finger against his lips. "It is. You know it is."

_I don't want this…_

"Missy…I'm…I'm sorry…"

Abraham Bender stood in the doorway wearing his blood streaked rubber apron over his grimy clothes. The meat cleaver in his hand was clean and shiny, and Dean knew it was just for him.

"You owe me a death, boy," the man grumbled darkly. He flicked a glance at Missy and she reluctantly slid off Dean's lap.

_Wake up_

Dean knew it was wrong, all wrong (_Wake up, you hear me?) _but he couldn't stop himself. He stood up, took a few stumble steps forward, then sank down on his knees in front of Abraham.

He bowed his head, heard himself whisper, "I'm sorry, Abraham. I'm sorry."

_Wake up_

Abraham growled as he raised the meat cleaver.

_Wake up right the hell NOW -_

* * *

"Sam?" Bobby whispered, and then he wondered _why_ he was whispering. He tied his plaid bathrobe around him as he walked down the back stairs. Rumsfeld was his four legged shadow. The big Rottie grinned and flopped down at Bobby's feet with a contented sigh as the older hunter stopped next to Sam.

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala nearby with his back against the windshield, his face turned towards the night sky. He was barefoot, dressed only in black boxer briefs and a grey tee shirt. Moonlight glazed Dean's already pale skin, painted the planes of his face and the lines of his body in bright silver. He seemed frozen in place and time.

"Never heard a sound, Bobby,' Sam said dully. "I woke up and he was gone." The younger Winchester balanced on one foot as he slipped his other tennis shoe on. He'd dressed himself in a hurry.

_Stockholm Syndrome,_ Sam thought as he stared at his brother. Anger rose up inside Sam, made his throat close up. He swayed on his feet a little. The rage he felt threatened to strangle him, but his anger wasn't directed at the Benders, or Gabriel, or even Beck.

"I told him what happened at the Bender place." Bobby said in a low voice. "Figured he had a right to know. That business at Sweetbriar…didn't see that coming." Bobby nodded at Dean. "He's been quiet ever since we left the Roadhouse. Too damn quiet."

"Not your fault, Bobby. We needed Dad," Sam gritted out. "Dean needed Dad, and Dad ditched us. Again."

Bobby's eyes narrowed at Sam's disapproving tone. "Not your Dad's fault either."

They kept their voices low. If Dean heard any of the conversation, he gave no sign.

"He should have stayed with us, instead of running off on some macho revenge trip."

"Now I _know_ you're full of it," Bobby drawled mildly. "Get off your high horse, boy. Beck needs whatever he gets. You really think your Daddy was gonna let that business stand? You know better than that."

Sam huffed angrily, but the look Bobby gave him was hard, direct. "Who are you really pissed off at, Sam? Your Dad, because he left?"

Sam's silence was as good an answer as any. Bobby nodded. "You mad at Dean?"

Sam looked startled. "What? No - "

"Because he left you? Because he came back different?"

Sam turned away to stare at Dean. Bobby didn't take offense.

"Well?" the older man said, not unkindly.

Sam motioned towards the house. Bobby raised an eyebrow at him, but he followed the younger man to the back steps. The further away from Dean the more agitated Sam became. Rumsfeld sat there staring for a moment, then he whined and stretched out on the ground. He was done moving around.

Dean stared up at the night sky. He didn't move, didn't react.

Sam cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at his brother. He ran both hands through his hair, even pulled his hair a little, as though the slight pain helped him concentrate. "I was going to leave," he whispered softly.

Bobby stared at Sam in disbelief. "You were what?"

"I was…I was going to turn myself in."

"What the hell for?"

Sam shrugged. "For Hudak. She died because of me, Bobby."

"You didn't force her to go out there, Sam."

"I called her, remember? Bobby, she…she wouldn't have gone to Sweetbriar if it hadn't been for me."

"So that's your weight now, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. And?"

"I was going to leave for Dean and Dad." The incredulous look on Bobby's face deepened. "Thought I'd take the heat off them. Let them live their lives, y'know?"

Bobby snorted. "That has got to be the dumbest damn thing I've ever heard of."

Sam really didn't know what reaction to expect. A sarcastic chuckle wasn't one of them.

Bobby's tone was quiet, but there was a hard edge to his voice. "You really think Dean and John would let you rot in prison? They'd get themselves killed busting you out."

"D-Dad wouldn't."

Bobby growled, deep and low and frustrated. Sam drew back. Bobby took off his trucker's cap, ran his hand over his hair. He stepped forward and tilted his head down.

"See this?"

Despite himself, Sam leaned forward to get a good look.

"Those grey hairs in my head belong to you, your daddy and your brother. You three are idjits, pure and simple. The only thing saving you is the fact that you love each other. I know you do, because if you didn't, none of you would give a damn about the other. It's easy for you to blame your Dad. Easy for you to leave. Getting Dean back was the easy part." Bobby nodded at Dean. Sam looked miserable. His shoulders hunched, and he didn't turn around. "Leaving's easy. So's dying. Staying and dealing with the aftermath is hard."

Bobby put his cap back on. He glared at Sam. Hard.

Sam blinked. "You were really rocking that speech, Bobby."

"Damn right I was. Made that one up just now." He raised himself up to his full height and rocked back and forth on his heels proudly. "Got a whole bunch of 'em, ready to use."

"You can call me an idjit. Guess I deserve that."

"Damn right you do. _Idjit._ So instead of standing there looking like I just stomped your puppy, what are you gonna do about it?"

"Uh…try to make things right?"

"Start small. Go see about your brother. Think you can do that?"

Sam nodded, suddenly awkward and shy. "Yeah. Yeah I can. It's okay, Bobby. I got this."

Bobby's expression softened. "I know you do, kid."

"Dean?" Sam called out as he approached the Impala. "You okay?" It was a dumb ass question. Of course he wasn't okay. Stupid words.

Dean nodded. He didn't turn around, didn't even blink. "Couldn't sleep."

_I'm fine. Now go away, damn it._

"Okay." Sam went around the front of the car, leaned against the left front bumper. He craned his neck skyward. "Full moon tonight." It was the only thing he could think of to say.

No answer.

Sam waited.

A full minute passed before Dean spoke. "Found this black Mustang out back once. It belonged to Riley Hudak. He was that lady cop's brother. Me and Abraham killed him."

A muscle in Sam's jaw twitched. "You mean the Benders killed him."

The look Dean gave Sam was slightly amused and quizzical, as though Sam's comment didn't make any sense. Dean stared at Sam for so long the moment almost became awkward, and then he shrugged. He stared at the sky again. "That Mustang reminded me of my girl here."

He gave the Impala an affectionate pat. "Don't know why. It didn't run anymore. We took care of that. But sometimes I used to think about starting it up, driving away from there." Dean's face blanked as he settled back against the windshield. "You know I never did."

"You weren't in control, Dean. Gabriel was. Why are you telling me this?"

Dean was silent again, as immobile as stone. For a moment Sam didn't think he'd get an answer.

Then: "So you know you're not the only Winchester who got a Hudak killed."

_Damn._ "Oh."

"So you were gonna go all self-sacrificing and noble for me and Dad, huh?" Dean said tiredly.

"Uh, what? I – I don't-"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. I was spaced out. Not deaf. I heard every word you said."

Sam didn't say a word.

"Haven't forgotten about your demon problem. I'm getting better. Might not seem like it, but I am. I'll get you out of your deal. You can do anything you wanna after that. Anything except turn yourself in. I'll kick your ass if you do."

"Okay."

Dean hissed under his breath as a sudden spasm of pain rippled through his left thigh. He'd stayed in that position for too long.

Sam scooted across the hood, hands already outstretched, but he hesitated for the barest second. Dean stared at Sam's hands, a glint of something Sam couldn't identify at first.

It was fear.

Dean's voice, rough and desperate in Sam's memory: _Yuh…you're killing me Sam…_

They stared at each other until Sam said aloud, "Just a massage, Dean. Nothing else. I promise."

Despite the pain Dean stared deep into Sam's eyes. The moment seemed to stretch, turn in onto itself, and then Dean nodded. He swallowed thickly, closed his eyes, pressed his lips together to keep from yelling out as Sam wordlessly kneaded his muscles, slowly, carefully, with both hands.

Dean opened his eyes several moments later. His muscles were pliable and relaxed underneath Sam's fingers.

"Better?" Sam whispered.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Sam stopped. "Why don't you come inside now?"

"Nah," Dean whispered. "Gonna wait for Dad."

_You can leave me. It's okay. Won't blame you if you do._

Sam sat back and didn't move.

_Not going anywhere, dude. Sorry. _

The subtle line of tension that ran through Dean's broad shoulders loosened up as he recognized and accepted the unspoken words.

Sam put his head back and stared at the night sky. He could feel Lim stir, but at a distance, far away. The demon was pissed off. Dean had been in Sam's grasp and nothing had come of it.

_I did it,_ Sam thought to himself. _I can handle this._ He felt jittery inside, as though he hadn't really expected any of this, couldn't dare hope that maybe he had a handle on this damn thing after all. Maybe that was too much to hope for. Maybe…

He glanced over at Dean, and that slight smile on Dean's face made Sam grin a little too. Even Dean's freckles were washed out by the moonlight, almost invisible against his skin.

His mind wandered. He wanted to ask Dean what he saw when he looked up there, whether he remembered his nights as a Bender, running fierce, fast and lethal in the dark underneath the sky. Sam doubted Dean saw much of day or night when he was at Sweetbriar.

_Shut it down,_ Sam thought to himself. _Quit analyzing the hell out of everything._ _He's here now. We both are. _

He settled back against the windshield with a small sigh of contentment. They were both entirely in the moment now, completely in the present. No past, no future.

It was good to just be.

* * *

Three thirty in the damn morning, and someone was at the door. Deacon grumbled to himself as he stumbled down the front hallway. He'd had problems with some of the neighborhood kids when he first moved in. That was past; lately one of the neighborhood drunks frequently mistook Deacon's house for his. Wrong street, wrong neighborhood, but none of that mattered. Dude's name was Donnie Blakeley. Donnie was ordinarily pretty mild-mannered but he was persistent when he was drunk.

Three thirty in the damn morning. Helluva way to start his day off.

The bell rang again, and Deacon's lips skinned back from his teeth in a ferocious snarl. Donnie was due for an ass whupping this time. Ignoring him wouldn't work. Hadn't worked the last three times.

Deacon hit the porch light at the same time he yanked open the door. Curse words harsh enough to blister paint immediately came to mind, and then just as quickly faded away to blankness.

"J—Johnny?" Deacon blinked in disbelief.

"Hey, Deacon," John rumbled. He was dressed in all black, and that made him look imposing and larger than life somehow. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by." He looked around mildly. "Nice place."

God it all came rushing back. Vietnam, Echo Two One company, the days and nights they'd spent in the hamlets and the jungle. They returned stateside together, kept in touch, even after the fire that killed Mary. John and his boys dropped off the grid after that, but Deacon kept in touch.

He was head guard at the Green River County Detention Center five years ago when the weirdness and killings started. Deacon caught a glimpse of the killer, and he couldn't believe it. Nurse Glockner.

Dead Nurse Glockner.

Deacon called John.

John came, and the murders stopped.

Now Deacon took in the bruises, the paleness underneath John's heavy stubble, the way he swayed slightly on his feet. John hid it well, but he favored his right side. Some bastard had been lucky enough to tag him, but Deacon had no doubt John made the fool pay dearly for it.

Just like old times.

"So what does the other guy look like?"

John chuckled darkly. "Worse than me."

"I bet. Well, come on in. Can't stay out here all night."

John nodded. He took one step forward and his knees buckled.

_He's going down,_ Deacon thought, and he stepped into John, put his arms around the man even as Winchester's head rocked back. His eyes flickered closed as he went totally limp.

Sonofabitch was heavy, a solid weight. Always had been. The only thing Deacon could think of as he half-carried John inside was "What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"

* * *

Epilogue to be posted Saturday.


	41. epilogue: stranger in a strange land

_**A/N: **_Chapter title taken from the song _Stranger In A Strange Land_ by Leon Russel.

* * *

_**Epilogue – Stranger In a Strange Land**_

Bobby stood watch outside for twenty more minutes. After a while Dean rested the back of his head against the Impala's windshield and closed his eyes. Sam held on a few moments longer, then he curled over on his side facing Dean and drifted off.

In the meantime Rumsfeld stretched out on the ground, softly snoring.

"Idjits," Bobby huffed to himself. Even the damn fool dog had the right idea.

Bobby was in bed, half asleep, less than three minutes later. The last thought he had was of Sam and Dean. It was the damndest thing, but he could see it now: the brothers were like a pair of Border collies: each one smart as hell in their own way, but just as likely to get peculiar ideas in those heads of theirs unless they were worked hard and often.

Not a very flattering comparison, but it was a fact, one he'd keep to himself.

Bobby knew whatever Dean did, Sam would follow.

Past time they _all _got to work.

* * *

Breakfast was sausage, hash browns, orange juice and eggs. Dean ate slowly, his eyes locked on his plate, like he was sure that either Sam or Bobby would bitch at him if he didn't eat. He didn't react to the sight of the whiskey bottle on the table; Sam very pointedly ignored it too. He paced himself so that he finished eating when Dean did.

"Need you boys to help me with something." Bobby said quietly. He pushed his plate over to the side and put both elbows on the table.

Both brothers came to attention immediately. Bobby tried not to smile at the image of two alert Border collies sitting side by side. Instead he wordlessly pushed the bottle of Jack across the table towards Dean.

"Uh, Bobby?" Sam instantly went into bitchface mode.

Dean eyed the bottle warily, then looked Bobby directly in the eyes. "What's _that_ for?"

"I want you to drink it."

"_All_ of it?"

"As much as you can."

"Why?" That careful, studied blankness in Dean's face even reached his eyes.

"We need to get a handle on what's going on inside you. You clocked Ellen at the Roadhouse, remember?"

Dean nodded.

"You remember _why_ you hit her?"

"Scissors," Dean said softly. He stared down at his empty plate.

"What?"

"She had those scissors near me." Dean shook his head slowly. "Didn't like that."

"Okay. Your Dad said you looked feverish and your skin was warm to the touch. After you hit Ellen you grabbed a bottle of Jack and headed out. Why?"

"I needed a drink."

Bobby huffed. "Uh huh. You drank the whole bottle. Then what?"

"Woke up in the back lot. Dad told me I was okay. I remember that."

Sam opened his mouth and then very quickly snapped it shut. Dean didn't notice and Bobby pretended not to.

"You got better," Bobby said mildly. "No hang-over, far as I could tell. Stayed that way for a couple of days at least. How'd you feel?"

"Okay."

"Missouri's got a theory that you burned off some of that spirit residue inside you. We need to make that happen again. Won't be exactly the same, but close."

"So you _want_ me to get drunk?" Dean said slowly, as though this was a trap or a test and he didn't quite know how to react.

"Well, yeah. Gotta see if the booze acts as a trigger. Or an accelerant."

"And then what?"

"You two meet me out back after you're done."

Sam nodded in agreement. Dean stared at first Sam and then Bobby in disbelief.

"Don't just sit there gawkin' at me, boy. You got a better idea?"

"Nope."

Sam tried not to stare as Dean reached for the fifth of whiskey. Dean didn't seem very thrilled about any of this.

* * *

Yeah, it was just like old times, courtesy of Dean's old friend Jack.

"….back in black…I hit the sack…."

Bump!

"Quit it!" Sam growled.

"…been too long, 'm glad to be back…."

Bump!

"Quit it!"

Dean laughed, a full-throated, happy chuckle. He grinned a little each time his shoulders bumped Sam's as they walked along. That gleam in his eyes said it all: _I'm doing this because I know it bugs the hell outta you. _

Bump!

"Oh, so you wanna dance, huh?" Sam backpedaled and right-jabbed at Dean's face. "Let's dance!"

Dean slapped Sam's hand away. Sam advanced; Dean backed up. His skin color took on a slight rosy glow that faded almost immediately.

"Stop it, Sam."

Sam ignored him. He was Dean's shadow. He shook his head as he smirked at his brother. "A thirteen year old girl could sideline your ass right about now."

Dean weaved from side to side, right, then left, avoiding each blow Sam snapped at him. Something dark flickered in the moss green depths of Dean's eyes.

He took a step backwards, out of Sam's reach. _"Damn it, Sam, I said stop it!"_

Sam stopped.

" 'm not sparrin' with you, y'hear me?" The brothers locked eyes for a second. Dean shook his head. "I'm not."

The wooden gate to the back lot swung open.

"Come on, we're burning daylight, ladies," Bobby called out. He turned and walked before them. The lot in back of the salvage yard was just an empty field. A large oak tree sat in the far corner, backed by a tall chain link fence. A blue cooler sat in the grass in the shade near the tree. Both brothers stopped and stared at the object that hung from the lowest, thickest tree branch.

The smile on Sam's face was like a slowly dawning sunrise. "Bobby?"

Bobby ran one hand over the creased brown leather. "Fella passing through years ago traded it to me for parts he needed for his truck. Now why he thought I'd need a heavy punching bag in a salvage yard is anybody's guess, but it was a fair trade, so I took it. You never know when this stuff is gonna come in handy."

Dean stood there blinking owlishly. "This isn't gonna work," he mumbled softly.

"Dean, come on!" Sam sounded excited. He crossed the distance between them and the tree in two strides, brought his hands up, went into a crouch and punched the bag twice. The bag easily took the hits; Bobby nodded in silent approval. There were no thin spots or cracks in the leather as far as Sam could see. He went around to the opposite side of the bag.

"Nope," Dean said a little louder. "Not gonna work." He swayed a little from side to side as he fumbled with his buttons and struggled to pull his shirt down around his shoulders. He was bare-chested. Usually he freckled evenly in the summer, and his hair brightened to blonde highlights. Not this time. The freckles on his back, chest and shoulders were in hiding; that dark brown hair of his made his skin look even paler.

"Uh, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Need some help?"

"Nope. Why?"

" 'cause I think the shirt is winning."

"Oh." Dean's head bobbled as he looked down at himself. His shirt was twisted around his body and both arms.

Dean grinned a little, goofy, carefree. " 's all good. " He rolled his shoulders as he shrugged off the hated shirt, then stepped in closer to peer at the punching bag as though he expected it to move on its own.

"Nope. Isn't gonna work."

Sam put both hands on the bag and pushed it forward. The bottom of the bag connected solidly with Dean's stomach.

He grunted and stumble stepped backwards. Dean's arms windmilled wildly out to the sides, but he couldn't keep his balance. He hit the ground on his ass. "Sonofabitch!"

Damn thing moved after all.

_Come on, 'bro. Show me what you got,_ Sam thought.

Bobby leaned against the fence.

Dean scrambled to his feet. He narrowed his eyes, clenched his fists as he glared at the bag. His first strike was half-hearted.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude, you hit like a girl."

The next blow was harder.

"Come on."

Dean scowled. A right combination was next, harder than the last one.

"Come on, Deanna. You afraid you're gonna mess up your manicure?"

"I got your manicure," Dean growled. He struck the bag again and again.

Sam tightened his grip and steadied himself.

"Dude, you're not even trying."

There was no mistaking it this time; Dean's skin immediately pinked up even more.

"Come on, harder!" Sam grated out. "You can do better than this!"

Dean threw his head back and roared. The sound he made was indescribable, a long guttural howl of rage and despair. His eyes glazed over incredibly green and bright. He focused his attention like a gunsight on the bag, not Sam.

That didn't make Sam feel any better.

_What if he ignores the bag and comes after me?_

The next move Dean made was a one two combo, a left jab, then a cross punch that made Sam and the bag tremble violently.

_Oh God, _Sam thought,_ maybe I should've kept my big fat mouth shut. _

Dean threw a right jab, then an uppercut. The impact shook Sam all the way down to the soles of his feet. Dean's ease of motion smoothed out; he threw punches with almost machine-like precision. The muscles in his back, arms and shoulders flexed effortlessly underneath his flushed skin.

All Sam could do was lean into the bag and hold on. It was only minutes, but it seemed like hours. Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother, and that was just as well. He saw the exact moment when the burn-off occurred. The fever in Dean's skin flared up and vanished. His color was normal, healthy again.

Dean was _back_. Sam could see it in his eyes, the aliveness, the awareness that wasn't there before. Dean staggered sideways, breathing heavily, and his knees buckled. Sam let go of the bag and was there on his knees by Dean's side in a heartbeat.

Dean blinked dazedly at him. "Dude…are you…are you _hovering_ over me or something?"

Crap. Sam couldn't help it; he flicked a quick glance down at Dean's hands. They weren't curled into fists. Not yet, anyway. "Well, yeah…"

"Oh. Okay." Dean's head bobbled slightly as he stared at the punching bag over Sam's shoulder. Incredibly enough, a slow grin spread over his face. "Yeah," he croaked out. He sounded happy.

"Mikey likes it, huh?" Bobby said quietly as he walked over.

Dean nodded. He took the water bottle Bobby offered and downed it all in one gulp.

"Hell yeah." Dean cleared his throat. He stared at the bag and his grin got even wider. "This might work."

Bobby kneeled down in front of the brothers. "All right then. The plan's simple: you don't get lost inside your head anymore. Each time you feel yourself getting like that, you come out here, and you work the bag. If you have to do this every day then, so be it. It is what it is. When your Dad comes back he's taking you and Sam off the grid for a while."

Dean blinked at the mention of John.

"You take the bag and whatever tools you need with you when you go. Set it up at the new place."

"Damn. Bobby, I don't know what to say-"

"You gettin' all girly on me, Winchester?" The older hunter glared at the younger man with mock sternness. "Better not be, because I expect you to pull your own weight. We clear?"

"Yes sir. Crystal."

Bobby stood up. "Well, you're not gonna sit there all day." He rolled his eyes as Sam stood up, leaned down, stuck out his hand and pulled Dean up on his feet. "What some folks won't do to get out of an honest day's work."

* * *

"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. When you hear the beep you know what to do."

"Damn it, John, this is Singer. You call me as soon as you get this message. Idjit."

* * *

Hours later Sam and Dean sat on the Impala watching the moon rise.

"Didn't work," Dean said quietly.

"What didn't?"

"Getting drunk." Dean shrugged. "I could feel it coming on when we walked out to the back lot. There's not enough Jack in the world to drown that out."

Sam turned to stare at him. He tried not to smile, because he knew that would cause Dean to shut down completely. Sam didn't want to end this moment, or screw it up in any way, because they were having a chick flick moment right now.

A chick flick moment that Dean, of all people, started. This was something new.

"You wanna know what it was like, right?"

Sam nodded silently.

"Voices yelling at me," Dean murmured softly. "Hands grabbing me. I could feel it in my skin." He sat against the windshield with his hands loose and relaxed in his lap. Dean stared down at the slightly swollen knuckles of both hands. "All I could think of was if I just fought a little harder, a little smarter, I could get out of there, y'know? If I pushed myself a little more, I could bust out of there." Dean laughed, shook his head as if he wondered how he could have been that damn stupid. "Guess we all know how well _that_ worked out, huh?"

"You got out of there. You didn't give in and you didn't give up."

Dean didn't say a word. He turned his face up to the stars and didn't say anything else for the rest of the night.

* * *

"We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service."

* * *

Bobby worked them hard.

The first day set the tone for the next three, and for a while it was good. They ate together, but after each meal each brother had their own chores to do.

Sam surfed the internet for long-term survivors of spirit possession. He stayed on his laptop for hours, poured through all the books in Bobby's library. Sam was relentless, always able to separate the fakers and the posers from the real cases. The hoaxes didn't jibe with what Missouri told him. The real cases were short-term possessions, usually weeks or months. No one had survived as long as Dean had.

And if they had, no one out there would even admit to it.

Dean gave the Impala a tune-up, told her that he was sorry for ditching her for so long. He worked alongside Bobby on some of the cars and trucks in the yard. He snarked and joked around, stripped carburetors, changed oil filters with nimble, talented fingers. When they ran out of work in the yard Dean went back inside and did research on Bobby's desktop while Bobby fixed the next meal.

The days always ended the way they began: out in the yard sitting on the Impala, waiting for Dad. It was the Winchester version of a lighting a candle in a window, something to lead a wayward traveler home.

Dean went first, and Sam always followed him.

* * *

On the morning of the fifth day Dean stood underneath the tree next to the punching bag. He was barefoot, and he couldn't remember when he'd stripped down to that black undershirt of his. He was dimly aware that Bobby and Sam were nearby, but they didn't have his full attention.

_Hey, Dean._ Gabriel smirked. _You miss me?_

Gabriel was _there_, standing in the same space as the punching bag. The shifting shadows and light from the tree branches overhead made his image shift and flicker back and forth. One minute he wore blue patient scrubs from Sweetbriar, the next dingy flannel, workboots and worn jeans.

Dean stalked the bag. He moved cat-quick on the balls of his feet.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. He wasn't impressed.

_Hmph. Knew you couldn't keep me in._ Gabriel rolled his eyes as Dean circled around. Y_ou'll never get free of me, you dumb bastard. You enjoyed every damn moment you were with me, and everybody knows it too. _

Dean stepped in close. His right jab made the punching bag swing back and forth on its chains. Gabriel shimmered around the edges, his dark green eyes suddenly wide with fear. Dean's right uppercut doubled him over. A left hook to the body, and Gabriel Bender came undone in a burst of dark light.

Dean continued to stalk the bag. He knew he wasn't done. The others hadn't come out to play yet.

Missy stood in Gabriel's place.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. _You'd never hurt me, would ya, Dean? I know y'wouldn't._

Dean uncoiled with a left wheel kick that planted his foot squarely in her face.

Missy's image shifted and trembled with the impact as the bag took the hit. Her mouth formed an O of surprise. She stared up at Dean with this wide-eyed, shocked expression.

_I thought…I thought you loved me._

Dean smirked fiercely. _Not on your best damn day, bitch._

Another kick and Missy vanished, scratchy silver static scattered in the afternoon breeze.

Two down.

Dean absentmindedly rubbed at the jagged scar on his left shoulder. It was two inches long, and it still bothered him sometimes.

Nathan Beck laughed.

"You still remember that, don't you? Ol' Roark was a piece of work, wasn't he? Bible thumping freak. He took one look at you and said you were hellspawn, and the sweet baby Jesus told him you had to die. Then he stole a pair of scissors from the infirmary and stabbed you with 'em one day. Sweetbriar's the gift that keeps on giving, isn't it, Dean?"

Dean's fist lashed out in a solid right hook. Beck's head snapped backwards; the look of shock on his face made Dean smile a little. Another right to the midsection, and Beck's ghost image crumpled over, dissolved into thin streamers that twisted and faded into open air.

Three down.

Abraham, Lee and Jerry were here. They stood around the punching bag shoulder to shoulder.

Lee and Jerry glared silently.

_My brother came back wrong because of you, boy._ Abraham's low whisper was filled with bright malice. _Should've killed you that night. _

_Yeah. Maybe you should've,_ Dean thought. He drilled the bag repeatedly, right in the place where Abraham's face would have been.

Abraham exploded into a fine mist.

Dean kept right on punching. He spun, he kicked, he moved to the rhythm of his breathing, the thunder of his heartbeat inside his head.

Lee and Jerry disappeared not long after Abraham and Beck did.

Dean suddenly found himself standing in front of the bag, his muscles spent, weak, but in a good way. He was the only one inside his head now. Dean stared down at his hands as he flexed his fingers. Something was missing, something else he needed.

As good as the bag was, it couldn't fight back.

He needed to feel flesh under his fists, needed to hear the impact with human skin and muscle. It was fucked up for sure, but he couldn't deny it. He needed to hit and _be_ hit, and that was part of this new need too.

That wasn't something he could tell Sam or Bobby. Sam would volunteer to be Dean's punching bag.

Dean shook his head as he turned away. No way in hell that was gonna happen.

"Well?" Sam said quietly as Dean walked up. "You good?"

Dean nodded. "Oh yeah."

For a while, at least.

* * *

Dean woke up and sat there blinking for a moment. He registered everything all at once: Impala, Bobby's yard. Sam curled up asleep on the hood beside him. Nothing had really changed all these nights. Moonlight lined everything out in the yard bright silver. Same yard, same cars.

John Winchester stood five feet away, just as big and dark and imposing as ever.

"Hey, son."

"Hey." Dean didn't remember moving, but he must have. John raised his arms and Dean stepped into them, without hesitation. The hug was lingering, fierce, and when it was over Dean stepped back. He felt the slight tremor in John's right side, the padding of the bandages there, saw the fading bruises on John's face.

"What the hell, Dad?" Dean whispered.

"It's okay." John nodded. They stared at each other for a long moment.

_It's okay. You're okay. Beck's gone._

Dean nodded back. John could see the question in his eldest son's eyes. _Why didn't you call?_

John's chuckle was dark and filled with irony. "Damn battery went out."

* * *

From: David Matthews

To: Robert Singer

Subject: Hi

Hey, Bobby.

It's been awhile, huh? Just wanted you to know we're okay. I'm using a proxy to send this to you. Had some help setting it up.

Dad's been here with us for three months. That's a personal best for him. I go to bed and I wake up expecting to see his empty bed and his stuff gone. Hasn't happened yet.

Old habits die hard, I guess. Used to be I'd bitch at him about that. I understand now. I think I do, anyway. I can't tell him I forgive him for being the way he is, so I'll tell you. I do. I finally get Dad. Most days he looks at me like he's expecting me to start bitching about something, _anything, _like I used to. That makes me laugh sometimes.

Dean's working the bag just like you told him to. He does it once a week now, but I can tell there's something different about him. He goes outside and stands there staring at the horizon, like he sees something that nobody can see. Sometimes it's like he never left. And sometimes I can tell he's seeing the world through Gabriel's eyes.

Dean came back. I won't say he came back wrong. He's changed, but that's okay. Yeah, like I'm the poster boy for normal, huh? He's still my brother, Bobby, no matter what. Nothing that happened to him during those four years is_ ever_ going to change that.

We have a home now. Dean has a stable place to work out, but it's not going to last.

I dream about Lim now. I've done that every night for the past two weeks. He's screwing with us. He wants me and Dean out there, wants us to come hunt him.

I'm afraid of what will happen when we do.

Dean knows something is up. Dad does too. I tried to hide it at first, but I never could put anything past them, you know that. I look at Dean, and I think about how I felt the first time when I thought I was healing him. It felt good. I was hurting him, and I didn't care. I asked him once if he was afraid of me, and he looked me in the eyes and snorted like that was so damn funny. I believe him. He's not afraid of me.

Maybe he should be.

Sometimes when it gets too much I go for a long walk. Sometimes I think about not coming back.

Dean follows me. I know he does. Dad does sometimes too.

Thing is, if I leave for good Dean will hunt me down and kick my ass. I'm caught, just like that monkey with his hand in that coconut trap. Hunters drill a hole in a coconut, put some nuts in there. Monkey comes along, sticks his hand inside. He's trapped as long as he holds onto the nuts.

I feel the same way. I can free myself if I let go, just give in to the deal. I can't. I won't hurt Dean. Or Dad. Like you said, leaving's easy. Dealing with the aftermath is hard.

We'll be hitting the road soon. I don't know how this thing is gonna end. Probably bloody. I'll take whatever comes. Winchesters don't just fade away. You and I both know that.

If I don't see you again, thanks for the lecture. I really needed it.

Sam

* * *

**_A/N:_** Well, this is it. We have come to the end of this road, for now, at least. I want to thank everyone who reviewed, everyone who fav'd this story, everyone who put me on author alert because of it. Thanks to the folks who lurked, and thanks to the trolls too. As Dean said in "The End": "I learned a lesson, all right. It just wasn't the lesson you thought I was going to learn."

Yeah, there will be a sequel. Hope you'll join me for that one. Thanks again!


End file.
